Red
by rockinfaerie
Summary: Love. Rage. Blood. James Potter's world is rapidly being consumed by evil. Departing the comfortable confines of his childhood, he embarks on an unexpected and dangerous path, one which, the centaurs know, will make his life tragically redder...
1. Last Night of Fifth Year

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling.

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Last Night of Fifth Year**

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Jet black curls tumbled into the marble washbasin. He pulled sections of his hair taut, and with a flick of his wand cut them. The sixteen-year-old boy staring back at him in the mirror was smiling. Gradually his hair grew shorter, and decidedly neater.

He looked through the doorway. As Remus was not present, the others had decided to mark his bed as their refuge. Peter sat on the floor, his back against the absentee's pillow, which he had garnered for his own comfort. James saw that he was absorbed inone of his comics. Sirius half-lay above him, his eyes closed, his head supported by the narrow, wooden bedpost.

Peter's head lifted from its reclined position, and when he saw James' appearance he let out a small cry.

"What the devil are you doing!"

James turned back to the mirror, closely inspecting his freshly cut hair. He rubbed his hand through it, noting the inevitable lack of soft strands to hold on to. His eyes fixed on his reflection, he picked up his wand again, casually trimming anyremaining excess lengths.

He ran his finger along his cheek. The incision had quickly healed, and he was glad to see that there was no trace left. He saw that his expression had become dark at the thought of him, and he quickly put that particular person out of his mind.

"Quidditch," he readily replied. This was the usual excuse he used when any action was questioned.

He stepped back, admiring himself. He had done a good job, he had to admit. He tidied the hair from the floor and the sink, quickly tossing it into the bin.

"We had fun," he muttered.

He gave his new hairstyle a vigorous run-through with his towel, and then let it remain, hanging around his shoulders. He proceeded to brush his teeth, glancing at his reflection every time he lifted his head.

Peter's voice drifted into the bathroom again.

"Ha! You don't cut your precious hair because of Quidditch! Anyway, Quidditch season's over, and we're going home tomorrow, in case you've forgotten!"

James spat into the basin. Trust Peter to see through that thin guise. He would play Quidditch when he returned home… must they always question him?

He always thought of home with some reluctance. It was not a bad place, but it remained oddly unfamiliar to him. As glad as he was to see the end of History of Magic classes, he would miss the team, and Hogsmeade visits. But above all he would miss thosenew moonlit expeditions – unforgettable times when his mind became so much simpler, relying on sense of smell and sound rather than total dependence on his imperfect sight.

With one last glimpse of himself, he left the comfortable seclusion of the bathroom.

"C'mon, you didn't answer us…" came a tired voice from the bed beside him. Sirius still had his eyes closed. His uniform was crumpled from his curled up position on the bed. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his own rather long dark hair hung about his eyes. James decided to engage in conversation with his exhausted friend.

"Your head still hurt?"

The previous night had been a lively affair, to say the least, and such was the tradition of this celebratory end-of-O.W.L.s night that even the strictest teachers turned a blind eye. The drinking pursuits of fifth years in general had not been unsuccessful, and Sirius' apparent headache was testimony to this.

Sirius rolled over, and raised his forefinger above his thumb, nodding slightly. James handed him a glass of water from the windowsill, and Sirius accepted it gratefully.

"Congrats on you and Florence, by the way," said Peter, his voice drifting up from the floor. He looked up from his comic to see Sirius' reaction.

Sirius looked blearily at Peter. Gradually he understood his words.

"What? No. Florence? No I did not! I definitely did not!"

His words became lively now, and James grinned at Peter's enthusiasm in annoying Sirius.

"How much do you remember about last night, Padfoot?"

James leaned against the bedpost to ask this, staring across the room at the window. The sun was setting. Streaks of puple, orange and red swam across the horizon. Dust in the air around him was cast in light. His body was bathed in brief warmth as the remains of the day shone through the windowpanes.

He heard Sirius's voice from behind him.

"I mean, did I? Florence, I mean… I can't remember that bit."

James lifted his hand and trailed it along the curtain that draped down the side of the bedpost. Peter handed him a toffee, which he accepted. He faced Sirius, who had now raised his head slightly, his eyes squinting up, blinded by the setting sun behind him.

"You cut your hair," he said in bewilderment.

"And I can't possibly think why," added Peter sarcastically. "Any guesses, Padfoot?"

Peter was smiling cheekily. James turned his back on Peter. He supposed he had guessed why he had done it. But it wasn't just her. He had been meaning to do it, he had. She merely served as a – a reason – though he would never admit it.

Sirius lay back, his eyes roving the canopy for an answer, his right hand scraping his locks back onto Remus' pillow.

"Um, your hair… someone told you to get rid of it, or something…"

Peter nodded, urging Sirius to reach his conclusion. He had climbed up to the bed now, and there he sat, his legs stretched out in front of him. He reached for the bag of Honeydukes toffees on the floor, and was only content whan he had gathered several into his lap, carefully unwrapping each before popping them into his mouth.

Not quite longing to hear his friends reach their conclusion, James went to the bottom of his own bed, where his trunk had opened, reminding him to pack. He let his towel fall to the floor as he studied the state of disarray in his space of the tower dorm. The closet had been emptied that morning, and now various types of clothes, books and Quidditch-related possessions formed heaps on his bed, the floor, and bedside locker.

Each object was ready to be sorted into his trunk. Abandoning earlier half-formed notions of neat packing, he approached the things with indifference, half-throwing each piece to the bottom of the case.

The other two still discussed his motivation for cutting his "beloved Prongs-hair". He was sure Peter knew, and why didn't he just say it? But Peter was waiting for Sirius to realise, and Sirius was still so out of it that he resorted to the original explanation that it had been about Quidditch, in spite of Peter's rapid attempts to dispel this idea.

The door opened. It was Remus, returning from his end-of-year Prefect meeting. James raised his hand in salute, while glumly sinking to a sitting position on the trunk.

Remus leaped carefully over Peter's empty case in the middle of the floor, and made his way to the alcove under the window, where he had left his clothes the previous night. He picked up a creased shirt from the floor and, not recognising it as his own, raised it to James, indicating to it with a flick of his chin.

James nodded to claim ownership, but he scrunched up his nose and pointed at Sirius. Remus, his eyes widening in sudden recollection, grinned, and stuffed it into Sirius' trunk.

Grabbing at his bed for support, James stood up, laughing at Sirius' attempts to push Peter off the bed.

On seeing not one, but two people in his bed, Remus made full use of his authorative voice.

"Off my bed!"

This jesting order had gotten Sirius' attention - "You sound like my father!"

With his abrupt movement he had became aware one more of his headache. With a groan, he crawled towards the other end of the bed as Remus pulled Peter off. James ran over to grab at his legs in an effort to drag him, but Sirius was too resistant.

It was not yet midnight, and Sirius would not be forced to go to his kennel, no matter how tired he was.

Peter, happily sitting on the floor again, watched as Remus began to fill his own battered suitcase. James, failing in his attempts to free up Remus' bed, bounded to a standing position on the headboard. His hand hooked to the wooden post, he swung around it in a pirate-like fashion, forging an innocent gaze at inanimate objects in the room. Sirius growled at this invasion of his recently claimed territory, insisting that James was only making his headache worse, and James didn't want that, now would he?

Abandoning his ignored requests for sympathy, Sirius' words returned to this seemingly forgotten "Florence occurence".

"Remus, you'll tell me. Did I do anything… unusual last night?"

Remus laughed. He lifted his bag from the floor, and leaning over his suitcase, dumped the bag's contents in.

"Unusual? You vomited on yourself, for a start… is that unusual?"

Sirius' eyes widened in surprise at this blunt remark. He was beginning to look slightly ashamed, and didn't appear to want to know the answer to his next query,

"What else…?"

James leaped to the floor and ran across it to Sirius' bed. Sirius' duvet had escaped from the mattress, and from under it James retrieved a neatly folded shirt. He put the shirt on Sirius' naked bed, and gesturing to it told him,

"There's your shirt. The house-elves left it here this morning."

James wandered back over to Remus' bed, and looked down at Sirius, who was now sitting upright. James, his finger on his chin in a mockingly thoughtful expression continued,

"What else… You attempted to fly – but that's not unusual – and you definitely did something with Florence. It's a bit vague, but when we found you, you had crashed out on her shoulder."

Sirius buried his face into his knees.

"She was pretty disgusted with you, by the way," added Peter, "And James gave you his shirt, but I don't think he minded! I think you were still drunk this morning; I've never seen you this hungover!"

James' thoughts drifted to the unwanted attention he had recieved from those annoying girls; the ones who always seemed to wander after him and Sirius in packs. Why couldn't he ever attract the intelligent ones?

Remus dropped a pair of rolled up socks into his trunk, which was quite neatly filled.

"O.W.L. night," he mused. "I suppose everyone has their story to tell..."

Sirius looked at Remus inquisitively.

"Not that I did anything out of order," he clarified quickly, his hands up in the air.

Peter laughed. "Oh no, Remus is a good boy!"

James watched the battered suitcase close as he sat back down beside Sirius on the bed. He had always thought Remus' was far more comfortable than his own. His eyes travelled to the window again. The sky had grown dark. Pinpricks of light had been scattered across the black mass that rose up beyond the Quidditch pitch.

His hand had grabbed it before he even thought about it. It was the Golden Snitch. He had forgotten to put it back in the storeroom. He realised sadly that there was no question of taking it home.

"Good catch!"

Peter's praise did little to cheer him up this time. Sirius let out his bark-like laugh.

"Oh…" he looked positively jubilant, and his light eyes were now clear. "I know who made you cut your hair!"

"He cut his hair..." Remus repeated, mystefied. He had been the last to notice.

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The fatigue set on by two weeks of exams had squandered any attempts to pull a second all-nighter. Yet by the time their lively spiritswere quenched, it had been dark for many hours. 

They had sat and talked mainly. There was reminiscing about the year gone by – the highs, the lows, and the boring, in-between times. James absorbed every minute of it. It seemed that the year had flown past them, and he had not seized his chance to catch it.

It was the last night of fifth year.

They now considered themselves men.

As James did the last of his packing, Sirius' deep snores echoed through the tower dorm. Out of habit, he rubbed his hand through his hair, and was slightly disappointed to find such a small amount. As he was just about to close the trunk, he caught sight of his Quidditch robes.

He moved silently towards them, so as not to wake the others. The bright red was highlighted in his dim wand light. He quickly extinguished it, and gathered his playing gear close, its familiar smell evoking memories of victorious past matches.

Smiling, he placed them carefully on top of everything else.

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This is "**Red**" of the **Hogwarts Colours Quartet**. Already up: "**Green**". 


	2. Thursday: Fabric to Feline Transfigurati...

Disclaimer: What I said before.

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**Thursday: Fabric to Feline Transfiguration

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**_Homework:_**_ Write two feet of parchment explaining the process necessary to produce a life-like cat from a piece of cotton cloth. Marks will be deducted for lack of diagrams.

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Minerva McGonagall was, beyond all doubt, an excellent teacher. She was the sort described by parents as "wonderful", "fantastic", or "an asset to the school". Unaffected by this praise, Minerva remained modest, in her own very professional way.

The opinions of the parents however, did not always reflect those of their children. Though general consensus was that they were rarely bored in her classes, it had to be admitted that some students were deeply intimidated by her, even frightened to do wrong in her class. Transfiguration is, of course one of those telling subjects; a lapse in concentration or collapse of wrist muscles due to fear would only result in a square teapot or literal cauliflower ears.

The professionalism she applied to her work was applause-worthy at times, but the fact that her very presence had the ability to make first years shake could not be rooted to any occasion in particular. She would glide into the classroom and immediately initiate the lesson, casting frosty glares at those who didn't see the vice in doing homework before her class. She was certainly known for her sarcastic wit, but often the younger years did not know if laughter was suited to the Transfiguration room.

Those who did not succumb to general opinion, found her to be quite nice and helpful if counsel was needed, and many students had a perpetual fear of disappointing her.

Unlike most other subjects, Transfiguration flew, because the students found themselves working constantly. She set them homework every night, and this was taken for granted. If a student was found without valid reason for missing homework, or any other form of misconduct, they were guaranteed a series of long, boring essays.

It was, therefore, fear of extra homework and no particular interest in Transfiguration that drove many students to put tremendous effort into this subject. Their efforts usually paid off at exam time, thus sealing this professor's good reputation among the parents.

There were few students who challenged her authority, and she had to admit, years later, that she had found them very entertaining. These few would crop up once in a while, causing chaos in their otherwise monotonous schooldays, and live as legends for the following week.

Two such young men went by the names of James Potter and Sirius Black. As sixth years, they were not beholden to the belief that she was a totalitarian dictator, a teacher who reigned on her own drunken sense of power – as many teachers did. It seemed that they had much respect for her. She had limited complaints about their behaviour – compared to some other members of the faculty.

Were it not for there excellent grades and utmost talent in her branch of magic, she might have quickly dismissed them as lazy nuisances. But she was quick to realise that Potter and Black would only succumb to their roguery (of which they had made quite a reputation) if they were bored. Though there were plenty of other students in her classes with gifted minds, Black and Potter channelled their boredom into destructive rather than creative accomplishments.

It was for these reasons that she was perhaps the most demanding of that class, beckoning the other pupils to keep up with Black and Potter rather than drag them down. In hindsight, she realised that this might have been quite an unfair practice on the naturally weaker students, but they ultimately benefited. No-one in that class did not achieve what they were capable of.

On one memorable occasion, in their fourth year, Potter and Black's antics had been rewarded with a series of essays to write, based on, "The Consequences of Mammal Transfiguration". It was the only title she could think of in her rage.

Far from handing up an untidy page full of inane extracts from the textbook, however, Potter and Black took it upon themselves to act out their essays, complete with demonstrations on what they had learned. In the hands of others, these grandeur requests for attention might have looked hopeless. Instead, they transformed the classroom into a two-man play, giving their attentive audience insight into the technique and depth behind the seemingly simple flick of a wand.

Minerva realised with some alarm that they had taken to the task with such fervour because it challenged them. She had wondered, then, if there was some way she could rework her strict classtime agenda to allow the two space to practise on their own.

In the two years that had passed since this development, Black and Potter had not only excelled in her subject, but they had become more subdued. Gone were the tricks and paper owls, replaced by quick understanding and enthusiasm in lessons. It was the challenging work she set for them, she assumed, that gave them an outlet for their boredom. They had shown particular interest in the study of animagi. Minerva thought it a pity that these youths could experience no more of this wondrous work of Transfiguration than from their hard, thick textbooks.

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Minerva strode into her classroom, laying her books on the desk to the noisy shuffle of students as they made it to their seats. The hum of voices instantly died down as she faced the class, ready to conduct the day's lesson. It was a Thursday, and the students were clearly excited about the upcoming weekend Quidditch match - Gryffindor facing Hufflepuff. Minerva looked forward to the match as much as her students did, but she was not quick to show it. The Black-and-Potter group were already growing restless, and only when she glared at them did they fall silent.

Though it was only February, Minerva had moved the class to textile-animal transfiguration, a rather difficult process for some, because of what it involved. The students were using simple cotton sheets today, and Minerva gave them to Pettigrew to hand out to his classmates. The fabric was white, as it was a plain canvas to work from.

The eyes of every student were on her as she turned to the blackboard, and proceeded to draw a series of diagrams, instructing how to perform such a spell. Her pupils took these down diligently, and the quick scratch of their nibs was the only thing to be heard.

The sun shone low through the large windows, warming every surface in the classroom. Minerva surveyed the students' heads from her desk. They were bent low, close to the parchment, and their hair fell down into their faces, something she had always avoided by her trademark neat buns.

After their notes were taken, Minerva moved the students on to practise the art of her craft. She always did this; lessons were generally dominated by the large round clock that hung above the door. The silence was soon dispelled by excited murmers from the students, hoping today to reach their goal – the successful transfiguration of a cat by means of those simple pieces of white cotton lying on their desks.

Minerva strolled between the desks, eyeing the students carefully, sternly correcting mistakes. They had all achieved their task, though most cats looked false, and they were white, like the original fabric. She reached down to examine the fur, careful to note in her ledger what difference had been made, and how persuasive forms were as cats. The pupils, knowledgeable of the classroom rules, were careful to keep their cats on their desks, and many held the new cats close when she showed them how to make adjustments to the feline features.

She marched quickly back up to the top of the room, vying to enforce the methods in her pupils' minds once more. As she moved to her desk, she saw Black and Potter sitting before her, as they always did. Potter sat with his back against the wall beside him, with a black and white striped kitten curled up in his lap. He was scratching its pointed ears fondly, and the low, content purring of the perfect kitten made Minerva feel very proud. Black's cat was rather large, and he had let it clamber over his desk, leaving messy paw prints on his parchment. It wandered in a bewildered fashion to Potter's kitten, and its paw dropped down playfully, causing Potter to hold it gently higher up, and Black laughed at his protective behaviour.

Striding before her class, she began to present to the weaker students a different form of thinking. She told them to imagine the fabric and the cat as two entities, one formed by the other through a connection forged by the wizard or witch. The idea of the feline product lodged firmly in their brains, they would allow the elements of the cotton sheet to be transformed.

Some students still stared blankly. She glanced at the ticking clock, and decided to use a different tactic. She told the students that the connection forged is not a physical one, but a mental one. She told them that they must use their utmost imagination to form a realistic creature. She gave them a demonstration – her wooden desk turned into an elaborate horse and back again, but to no avail. The students' attentions were also on the clock. Reluctantly, she used the only idea she could to relate to them on such a theoretical concept.

"Imagine two people, in a crowded dance hall."

The students' ears seemed to prick up, and their gaze was suddenly turned to alert attentiveness.

"They stand at opposite sides of the hall, with many people in between." Her voice grew steadily softer.

The class was laughing now, but they quietened to hear the next line of her monologue.

"Their eyes meet. They can't stop staring at each other. Heart rates quicken… and a connection is forged." Minerva grew stern again, but she was glad. Those students' faces now showed clear comprehension, and began to make their own quick adjustments to their cats.

Minerva knew that the bell would ring any second, and was just deciding to leave the students to their own devices as she tidied up, when the door opened. It was rare that no-one had bothered to knock first, and when she looked up from her desk was pleasantly surprised to see Albus Dumbledore. His tall stature nearly reached the top of the door frame.

"Speaking of which…" was a student's timely whispered insertion to her tale, and the class erupted in quiet chuckling. But Albus did not laugh. He stood still in the doorway, his face cast down, and with a plummeting feeling, Minerva knew he was not here to give good news.

She walked quickly to the doorway, and on close inspection saw that Albus was quite upset. He seemed to gather himself, however, as she approached, and spoke heavily to her.

Minerva glanced to the two boys sitting in the corner, playing with their cats. Potter, with eyes so sharp he had won her the cup three years running, had caught her eye. His grin had immediately disappeared, and he looked at Albus, quickly comprehending – as he always did – the subject under discussion. Albus beckoned him, his light blue eyes sad.

The noise of the students had reached a height, and they sat in their rows, chatting amongst themselves, with no notion of what their popular classmate had just understood. Potter had quickly risen from his seat, dumbly releasing his kitten onto the floor. He arrived quickly to their side, and as he passed heads turned, wondering the meaning of it. Most concerned, Minerva saw, was Black, and Lupin and Pettigrew behind him. For a second she saw the group staring silently after him, before Albus quietly shut the door.

With a meaningful look at her, Albus took the pale sixteen-year-old down the corridor, and Minerva watched their retreating feet until they rounded a corner and she lost sight of them.

The bell rang. Its trilling sound seemed to resound against the stone walls for hours. The students poured out of the doors in torrents, happily discussing their approaching lunch. Her students streamed out quietly, their faces grim. Last out were the three others she had watched looking fruitlessly around for their friend. She saw them from a distance, and with a heavy heart turned the other way, unwillingly experienced in such situations. The world surrounding them was a dark one, one Albus hoped to prevent from entering Hogwarts. But such shocking events would not be prevented, and already she could feel a dim, tense atmosphere descend on the school.

With a deep sigh, she began the short walk to her office, ignoring the chattering students who walked by.

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	3. A Changed Man

**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**A Changed Man**

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Several wooden steps flew behind him as he rapidly ascended, careful not to trip. His feet were muffled by the carpet that lay on the staircase, and he grasped the bannister tightly. He streaked across the landing, avoiding the scattered dusty furniture, and flung the door open.

He shut it softly. His bedroom looked the same as it did when he had left it that morning, only for the marble fireplace that now flickered with the remaining embers of its once powerful regime. He stayed there, by the oak door, and it was now that he heard his own breathing. His heart pumped with adrenaline — he had just bounded up three flights of steep stairs; he could not face them anymore.

The sunset gleamed through the windows, and the room was cast in a relaxed orange haze.

He methodically crossed the thick carpet and drew the heavy curtains across the wide windowpane. As he did this he caught a glance of his own reflection in the thick glass. He let the heavy material fall between his eyes and the window, yet he instinctively brought his hand to his hair. There his other hand joined its fellow and soon his face was buried in both. He stood upright, his knees shaking slightly, blind to the house by his fingers.

His head was thumping; he hadn't slept in a week.

He had left the drawing room with apparent ease, he hoped. The small group of relatives there had caused him deep discomfort, and he now wished them away from his home. Their sympathetic words had been muffled by cold eyes and hands that shook his awkwardly, with skin so pale and fleshy it seemed that they never saw the light of day. Blurs of red wine floated in their hands and they would raise these to their upturned lips, casting hostile glances towards others as they spoke to him.

That musty smell of black dress robes had made his stomach churn, and he was ungrateful for his uncle's insistence that he should talk to every tall, ill-beseeming, grey-haired man in the room. They would emerge like shadows from the corner by the piano, inflicting their neat manner on him, sprung from common courtesy and no desire to please.

As his uncle went to speak to one of these wine-wielding spectres about "private matters," James had stolen his chance. Avoiding his mother's eyes, he had crossed the room, and only stopped in his silent run when he came inside his bedroom door.

He moved his hands away. His cheeks were still dry, but the skin on his face felt stiff — it bore testimony to the expressionless mask he had worn all day. Glad to be out of the high-ceilinged furnace that was the drawing room, he looked around, his vision unbroken by other individuals.

His room never changed while he was at school. He gazed at his four-poster, seeing images in the pattern he had never seen before. His eyes followed a golden line of embroidery to where it stopped, in a fold of material, tucked beneath the mattress. He thought longingly of school, and wondered when he would return. The news that had been thrown at him like icy water a week before had upset his way of thinking.

It had transpired that the world was not a secure place, where a game of Quidditch would solve matters quite easily. It was instead a harsh, dreadful series of events that were piled miserably on top of him, whenever he was released into it. A part of him had been angered at the fact that he had been kept as a naïve captive of Dumbledore's, in an effort to shield him from what lay outside. But more often than not he found himself wishing that he had never been told; he could carry on living in the childish misconception that no family of his would ever be affected by the dire, whispered affairs of the adult, ex-Hogwarts world.

He shut his eyes again, because he had begun to think of things he was not yet ready to think about. He hummed tunelessly, in an effort to clear these thoughts out of his mind. He kept hearing those words, over and over again.

James tried to focus his attentions on other things — the spellbooks on the bookcases that lined the walls, the torches burning steadily in their brackets, the dying fire — but these were no help. He needed something — anything, to help him escape the torment in his head, even if just for a moment.

He raced back to the window, flung the curtains aside and forced the windows open. Both panes slammed away from him as he leaned out, blissfully inhaling the cool dusk air.

The tall narrow houses stared at him from the opposite street. The sun had chosen to settle here for the night — it cowered behind those buildings, steadily darkening his room. The neighbouring houses were also white, and it appeared that many elegant pillars had been drawn on them in vertical lines. Spindly black railings divided them from the road, and enclosed were small patches of grass. Lights were lit in the windows — they brightened and darkened suddenly, like the blink of an eye.

His neighbours had never seen him, and neither had they seen his family. He now supposed grimly that they never would. Their eyes always passed over the house, their footsteps echoing on the concrete path.

A Muggle couple were walking below, hand in hand. The woman wore a long red coat, and a matching hat, apparent to James several stories above her. The streetlamps were lighting, causing an artificial glow to fall on the couple, and James watched them for a moment as they sauntered happily down the street. It was as if he looked down into another time, when people could be happy and carefree, and when love became a requited, splendid thing.

He leaned his arms on the windowsill, and now the street was empty. All that remained were the parked cars of other residents and their silhouettes in the reception room windows of the ground floors. The lawn before his house had grown dark and a strong breeze made the trees dance eerily. Far away a dog barked.

Exhausted, he retracted himself from this strange, sudden world, and fell numbly back onto his bed. He continued to stare through the open window, until the sun had made its full descent into the darkness.

His was an odd condition - he could not sleep, yet any attempts to think were blurred by fatigue. So he continued to lie here on his bed, in his formal black dress robes, the skin on his face quite stiff, but his eyes still quite dry. His head was stuck to the pillow, and though his position was not a comfortable one he made no effort to change it. He feared that sudden movement would rid the people downstairs of the idea that he was actually asleep.

This was an entirely new experience for James. For too long his family had been a tranquil, if futile presence, serving as providers but rarely councillors. Now the people he heard moving downstairs he cared not for, and he felt a sudden longing for his childhood, times that presently seemed distant and could never be grasped again without issuing a horrible pain within him.

He wished he could simply return to Hogwarts and forget the events of the past week. Those high stone walls had adopted him. He had lived there for so long that in the past few tiring days he had found himself trying to pick out student faces from the crowd that milled around him. Each time the disappointment was overwhelming.

A soft breeze drifted into the room, stirring the curtains and ruffling his hair. The fireplace had dulled completely.

He may have slept, he was not sure. His position on his bed appeared different, and his mind felt rather clogged. As the present situation reluctantly returned to his foggy mind he let out a deep sigh, and closed his eyes once more. He tried to block out the flickering torch brackets. Little coloured shapes needled him in this solitary darkness, and he angrily turned over. He was at once unpleasantly surprised to see his uncle sitting in the chair beside his bedside.

"Shut the window. It's freezing," the seated man ordered softly.

He only caught a glance of him, sitting upright in his own black dress robes, because James had immediately drawn his arms over his head and his back to the man's face, hoping to block out the knowledge of this insufferable wizard by gazing furiously at the window.

"Go away."

He heard his uncle sigh at this insistence — he had heard it twice already this week. James remained still, his head pounding more as he shut his eyes again. He heard his uncle's soft footsteps as he rounded the bed.

Soon he stood between the window and James. He angrily flung his wand at the window and it slammed shut, the curtains rolling over it. He summoned the chair to follow him. As he sank into it, he cast his steely gaze on James, and, comfortably hidden by the folds in his dress robes, James held the protective presence of his wand. James rolled over yet again, happily facing the tapestry instead.

"That's enough."

His uncle's voice was stern and authoritarian — reminding James of someone he had once known very well. How dare he speak to him in such a tone — his uncle was a mere six years his senior. It was all James could do to refrain from screaming curses and obscenities at him — that sort of behaviour was never deemed appropriate in this house. He hated it here.

James stiffened, and slowly faced his uncle, casually adopted an indifferent, cold expression — an obligatory requirement in speaking to this member of the family in particular. His miserable emotion retreated inside himself, as he knew it was not welcome in this room. He threw a questioning look at him, as thought he knew not the reason for such an abrupt tone. He grinned inwardly at his uncle's displeasure.

"It seems that Hogwarts has spoiled you," he remarked, producing a small, quilted box from his pocket. "Too often have boys from our family grown to be demanding, rude, and ungrateful brats." He produced a cigarette from a quilted box and offered it to James. "Welcome to the club," he added, his arms open wide in a sarcastic manner.

James fumbled with the cigarette. He never smoked — it was a stupid habit to accompany a sport that demanded one to race at sixty miles an hour for God knew how long. He had tried it only once before, and as he stuck the cigarette into his mouth he resolved not to let his inexperience show. His uncle produced a flame from his fingertip and lit it. James coughed slightly as he inhaled.

His uncle drew one himself, and soon the stench of tobacco drifted around them.

"I note you are a beginner. I thought that you might perhaps decline on the basis of your Quidditch pursuits. Too right you might. Smoking is a dreadful habit." He exhaled, a thick grey cloud of smoke emitted from his mouth as he spoke. He eyed James carefully. "You know, you have missed an important match just by being here. You are undoubtedly upset."

This realisation did not have a sudden impact on James. Quidditch was currently a peripheral aspect of life, he conceded. He did not care that he missed a match. In fact, up until now, he had forgotten about it entirely. The team would not fare well without him, he supposed. He took a quick look at the clock. If none of this had happened, he thought, he would be in Transfiguration right now. It was Monday.

He lay back on the bed, taking another drag from the cigarette in his fingers, quickly preventing another cough as he did so. His uncle's most recent words echoed in his head. He wondered what exactly his uncle was referring to.

The canopy had golden embroidery in it. He had not forgotten. He traced the pattern with his finger and then dropped it back onto the mattress, summoning the courage to take a proper look at the man he had barely seen for two years.

His uncle was tipping ashes from his cigarette onto the carpet. In his other hand he held his glass from downstairs. The remaining drops of wine swilled about in a slow, circular motion. One leg crossed the other at a right angle, and his black cape draped across his shoulders like the curtain behind him. He sat rigidly, his head arched back, and his white-blond hair was exceptionally neat; the long straight strands were pulled back tightly from his forehead. The collar of his shirt was crisp and white, and the hem of his robes brushed the carpet delicately. He held both hands together, each right finger matching his left. His eyebrows were straight, and a thin line had appeared between them as he studied James.

"Let's have a look at you then."

James raised his body slightly, and looked at Lucius directly. He engineered his scowl to such a degree that his face felt even stiffer. He made neater his own shirt collar, which had grown crooked. His uncle's pale eyes were fixed on his, and in the sunlight James thought he looked blind. James was amazed to see the change two years had wrought in the man he had once known as a lazy, dishevelled teenager.

"Clearly you are putting on quite a display of indifference to your father's death," he commented sharply, as more ash fell to the carpet. He moved his face closer to James', as though scrutinising him for some wrong-doing.

James felt a strong urge to hit the man, but at the same time mentally congratulated him for not sugar-coating the matter at hand, as so many others did. He lay back, forcing his vague expression to stay there as he seethed inside.

"This interests me. Perhaps we are more similar than I first thought," Lucius continued. There was a short puffing sound as he took another drag from his cigarette. James was at once reminded of his condolence gift and inhaled from his own quickly. "You see, many years of schooling sometimes forces children to turn away from their family values — especially when you have someone like Albus Dumbledore running the education machine."

James sat up. He now stared at Lucius' face, hoping to see some jest in his eyes, or lack of sincerity in his words, but Lucius, who rarely put up fronts like James did, clearly believed every word he said.

"True, I must confess that I had been looking forward to passing my Slytherin knowledge to my young nephew, perhaps guide you as I would a little brother, if I had one, but it was not to be the case." Lucius smiled, but his eyes held no warmth for James. "But I came to see, during my seventh and your first year, that you were quite capable of governing your own life, and I concluded that any proposed guidance would have immediately been refused."

James did not see why it should matter to his uncle that he went to Slytherin. James had had no choice in the matter, and Lucius had admitted himself that James was no younger brother, but his sister's son. Since his return home he had noticed that grown wizards seemed to quell under Lucius' gaze, as though frightened of him. James had never been afraid of him, but he found this new authoritarian stance of his highly irritating.

Gone was the mischievous but accommodating boy, who had looked after him when he was small, and taught him how to fly when he received his first broom. Gone were the days when they would pull tricks on their older relatives, and wreak havoc in each others' houses. Gone was the shy teenager, who would be happier making up games with him than partaking in the adult conversation. Gone was the superior seventh-year, who would keep a look out for him, even from his own distant location in the garb of green and silver. Instead here sat an overbearing man, wallowing in a smug sense of self-satisfaction at the fact that he had triumphed in his life-long quest for a respected disposition.

"It's a classic story, really," he continued. "Your best friend is, of course, the only pureblood teenager in the school who rejects his fine heritage, and you yourself don't seem to give a hoot about the pureblood moral code. But I have faith that you will mature from your rebellious attitudes as I teach you not just to think pureblood is best, but to know pureblood is best."

James moved slightly away from Lucius. He was beginning to feel sick. He had suspected Lucius of possessing these leanings for the past few days, but he was nw beginning to get clarification.

His father had warned him about these wizards, a year before; there were some "extremists" who thought their view was best. He had also learned that this "pure stance," - the strong belief that pureblood was not only the supreme race, but the only one that should exist in wizardkind was in fact upheld by many acquaintances of his. These ideas were gaining more and more discussion, and support had grown for wizards who claimed they would put these theories into practise. James' knowledge of these affairs was, however, quite limited, owing to the fact that Dumbledore put such emphasis on the idea that all wizards, no matter what their background, should be treated equally.

But how long had Lucius behaved thus? The odd creed that he had mainly seen deployed by elderly relatives with whom, out of some unwritten rule, one could not argue, had never made sense to him. Now, to see his uncle in support of these unfashionable views, caused quite a shock to him.

His father had told him that this belief held by many pureblood wizards across the board was not to be tolerated. There were rumours circulating about ideas and deeds done to support this belief. James could clearly recall the rare look of fear in his father's hazel eyes when he had told him that sometimes muggle-borns did not return after the summer holidays. James always assumed that they had grown tired of a whole new system of living, but his father's concise conclusion to these vanishings was a terrifying revelation.

It had confused James at first, on cold days during the school holidays, when he would overhear his father and those equally well-presented friends of his. They would gather in the drawing room to discuss current affairs, and as they sipped blurred red wine and perched themselves comfortably in the armchairs, they would give their ideas on "what should be done". These purist views, so condemned by his father, were commonly discussed in front of him, and his father would join in, agreeing and laughing with his guests. The bright fire would flicker on their eyes, and on these days James would try to avoid the group of men at all costs.

But James was not uneducated about the occurrences in the wizard world. Mysterious disappearances were now so commonplace in the news that no-one seemed to care anymore. There were links between each missing person and an underground resistance movement that the ministry had dubbed as illegal, though there was no proof that it had ever existed.

From the moment he had seen that look on Dumbledore's face outside the Transfiguration classroom, he had known.

"And at sixteen, you're ripe for such an education. Don't think that I was not once ignorant of what lay below us," his uncle proceeded, his voice loud with enthusiasm. He obviously had little idea of what was going through James' mind. "I'll bring you into this movement, and show to you our great leader, and I will allow you to flourish. I know you are exceptionally talented, and we do not want that talent wasted."

Lucius' propositions disgusted James, and James had outgrown flattery. He never wanted to meet Lucius' "leader," never. He had seen the diagrams of torture chambers. He had seen information completely wiped from his textbooks to rectify certain stances those "politicians" took. He had understood that to be outspoken was to be killed — or worse.

Lucius had risen now, and his voice was shaking with emotion.

"You should hear him, James. When he speaks, it's as if I want to crush them. And I will take care of you, just like I promised I would."

James realised that he was trembling. Lucius' figure was quite overbearing, and the idea that he actually wanted to take James and teach him his ways made James' heart beat quite fast. He straightened up and looked at Lucius's face. Perspiration was shining on his brow and his eyes had a glazed, fanatic glint that James had never encountered in him before.

"What has happened to you?" he whispered, and Lucius looked down at him with a start, as though he had just seen him.

"What has happened to me, I hear you ask?" His voice lost all sense of loyalty, and he lowered his face towards James'. "I have come into the power I deserve. And by the looks of the current situation, I will keep it."

Lucius continued to smile, the skin on his jaw stretched on both sides, and his eyes were now quite meaningful.

"And you will join me there, young nephew. Up at the top," he whispered.

Without meaning to, James had shaken his head slightly. Lucius had gripped his arm tightly, and he stood close to him. James could hear his deep breathing.

"That was an order, James. The family will be dishonoured no longer." His smile grew wider and the grip on James' arm grew tighter.

The sun had disappeared completely, and Lucius continued to smile, devoted to the force behind it.

"You're six years older than me," James spat back. "Stop pretending you can tell me what to do. You've never done it before and you're not going to. Stop pretending you're..." He could feel the anger coursing through his veins. His sullen demeanour had been dropped to the floor. "Now let go!" he hissed, trying to wrench his arm from his uncle's fingers, but they clutched it firmly.

For a moment, Lucius' face had slackened.

"Sad, really. But I shan't worry. You'll come crawling to me, begging me to make the offer again." His eyes had grown watery, and for a moment, James thought stupidly that he had actually hurt his feelings. But any pity for his uncle was soon withdrawn. "Power is everything James. You'll see."

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	4. A Woman Bitter With An Almost Futile Lif...

Disclaimer: As before.

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**A Woman Bitter With An Almost Futile Life**

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To observers she was a pretty picture. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her robes, made by the finest couturiers draped elegantly down her petite frame. Her face was lightly made up, and she still looked youthful, much to the envy of her female peers. She sat in the most elegant chair of the room, her slim legs tucked under it, nodding and talking with the swarm of well-dressed men who now gathered around her.

The heat of the fireplace behind her caused a pale blush to emerge on her high cheekbones, and now and then she would tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and her eyes would widen at something one of the men had said, each desperate to gain her trust.

No tear had stained her cheek to bear evidence to the grief she was experiencing, and nor would she allow it to. She sometimes gathered her robes around her, as her throat tightened, and the voices around her would become faint echoes, as she retreated into her mind, back to another time.

Too often, they would take her hand, and offer her valiant looks that promised protection, and happiness. They pressed in around her, their collars stiff and lips drenched with wine, issuing words of vague comfort. Some were broad and heavy, with soft, round chins and wide hands that clutched hers, while others were rather stringy, their hair flecked with grey, and their cool eyes full of concern.

Their voices drifted around her like clouds of smoke, and she focused on other things in the room. The large vase in corner was webbed with cracks, and the flowers within had closed, becoming bud-like in appearance. The piano was surrounded by younger men than her companions, including her brother, Lucius, who chatted eloquently to them on some matter. Beside him stood her son, who politely accepted the condolences he received from older relatives, his mouth set in a thin line.

Since his return, many people had congratulated her on her handsome, well-mannered son, and she now felt a detached sense of pride as influential men smiled at him and looked at him with satisfaction, and ladies bickered over who's daughter was most suited to him.

It was over sixteen years ago when she had first laid eyes on him, and she often felt that it was the only important thing she had ever done. To hear him praised in such high regard made the shattered pieces of her heart glow. The remnants of their former life were now discussed openly in newspapers and on shopping streets, and she was so glad James could live away from it all.

She turned her attentions once more to the men who sat around her, her eyes growing bigger and her lips growing wider on cue, but even for her, a woman so accustomed to throwing parties and meeting up with acquaintances – rarely friends – it was extremely difficult to understand what each was saying to her.

It was no secret that Mr. Potter had enjoyed many mistresses, and she assumed that they thought the sameof her. But the notions they held about her were further from the truth. She was pretty, but she was no fool. Her social excursions were a salute to her carefree upbringing, and while she like company, very few people knew that she often requested to be alone, and read or spend time with her son.

She was madly in love with him. Even when she first set eyes on him she knew. His shy nature had often led other women to think him distant, but she had quickly opened him up, getting to know him easily, and realising that many of his qualities were on a par with her. He was a kind man, and others often maintained that the large age-gap between them signified nothing more than the traditional pure-blood marriage. She was young when she had married him, and still was now, when he was no longer there.

James was born within a year, and while he had always been a good father to him, was often abroad, working in areas of business she rarely understood. His absence had made her heart grow fonder, but on his return he would be quite removed, and often slept in other rooms, or made excuses to go other places when she knew it was not necessary.

Her love for him transcended his disloyalty, but it grew to have a bitter taste, as his actions stabbed her like a thorn. Her love remained unrequited, and it that had sprung afresh like a daisy had grown cold like the pecks on her cheek.

The fact that she was good-looking and a socialite gave others the idea that unfaithfulness in their marriage was a mutual agreement. But though she had had many offers, she had always stood by their initial vows, though it pained her deeply to do so. Sometimes, on rare occasions when he returned home late and came into her she would catch a glimpse of affection in his eyes that she had first been drawn to, but by morning it was gone.

He often joked that she was a spoiled creature, and though she bought whatever she pleased she never felt fulfilled; clothes, jewellery and luxuries of any other kind could never replace what he neglected most in her. She usually felt as though she was looking at him from the outside, watching his actions and hearing his words with the deepest study, and the ache inside her was never relieved. She wondered if James had ever realised, but they always tried to keep their behaviour as normal, as hard as it was to do.

The fact that James had been away meant that the past six years had been even lonelier than the ones that preceded them. Of course, she had tried to distract herself; holidaying with friends, parties, attending to her appearance. But these did not work, and she would return to find the house an empty shell, and no home.

He had had a strong relationship with James, which he always made sure to tend to when he was home. This bond they shared often made her envious, and while she was confident that James loved her as she did him, she wished he would confide in her. It seemed he had grown up so quickly, and she felt sadly that she had missed out.

Their family was in fact, quite typical. It was completely acceptable in their circle to break from the confines of marriage – even to create new ties; something she hoped hadn't affected her son.

One of the men was talking directly to her again. It was Albert Milford, one of her most trusted friends. He was looking at her with real concern, and she smiled thinly to show him that she was still aware of him. He was the only person she had talked to about her husband's death. How shocking it had all been.

Albert had been at Hogwarts with her. He had never married, and instead had focused on his work. He was a mediwizard, and his vast knowledge on the subject of herbs and charms had appointed him to the chief of St. Mungo's – the most coveted position in his profession. He thoroughly deserved it, due to the dedication he had put into his practice.

Unlike his colleagues, his hair still retained its natural colour, and his blue eyes were bright. His shoulders were broad, and he was quite tall – taller than her, at any rate. He always had a warm smile for her, and even in these tough times knew that she needed company, not solitude. Like her, Albert was quite outgoing, and for the past hour or so he had conducted the conversation with the other men, careful not to bother her. She was very grateful. She knew she could not discuss private matters with her tonight, it was neither the time nor the place.

He smiled sympathetically with at her from his armchair opposite her – he knew that she did not like being surrounded on all sides by her older, old-fashioned relatives. They bored her, and boredom made her retreat into her inner-feelings, something she did not like doing, as she wanted her exterior to remain as passive as ever. Albert sipped his wine, and she watched his eyes flit from speaker to speaker, scowling in disagreement, or nodding as he found solidarity with others in his opinions.

Once again, her eyes roved the drawing room. Small groups had formed around the furniture, older relatives and family friends taking first preference in seating. She thought it a pity that James did not have anyone his own age to associate with, but he had appeared as comfortable as he could be, all things considered.

But where was James? Her eyes gazed past Susan Bones and Margo Isme-Rathford. He was not by the window – all she saw were cigar-smoking friends of her husband. He was not behind her either – she turned her head around to get a better view of the room. Her heart started to beat faster – where could he be? She set her glass on the side-table, her manicured hands brushing her quilted handbag as she did so. She looked to the piano. Lucius was still there, now in deep conversation with one of his former school friends. He looked up and she caught his eye, and with a flick of her chin summoned him to her.

He was immediately by her side, clearly worried. She asked him had she seen James leave, and he too looked around the room for his young nephew. Not seeing him, Lucius told her that James must have retired to his room – it had been a demanding day for him, one he should never have to experience at such an age, and Lucius promised he would go up and see if everything was all right.

She smiled as he left the room. Lucius was so caring.

The door shut behind him, and some relatives seemed surprised at such an abrupt departure. Albert was conducting another discussion – this time quite a topical discussion. Reforms in government, the threat of extinction to the wizard race, and a possible solution to social problems were always high on the agenda. She sat back with a sigh – these conversations were so uninteresting. She fixed her gaze on her bag and willed the minutes to pass.

Gradually, as the light outside extinguished, she grew uncomfortable with her appearance and felt the need to freshen up. Activity would refresh her mind in the way no conversation ever could. She excused herself from the group, and Albert eyed her sombrely.

It was only when she reached the privacy of her bathroom on the first floor that her oppressed emotion began to leak, until it streamed down her cheeks, trailing in her make up. She stood upright, her shoulders hunched, staring out the open window. A light breeze blew the curtain away from it, and from here she could see the path below. From here she saw a young couple, strolling hand in hand below her, as though they cared not that their inferior world would soon be destroyed. She wondered what she would think then, and what they would think if they could see her, with her ruined mask and husband gone – a husband who had never, ever loved her – what would they think if they looked up from their happy, futile stroll to see her pointing her wand down at their serene backs.

Her face rectified and her expression returned to normal, she left the bathroom. She clutched her bag tightly, and it was as she walked down the hall that she found Albert, who, seeing her reddened eyes and bitter smile held her in a warm embrace.

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Please review... C'mon, I've gotten like, two so far (for which I am grateful)! 


	5. Biscuits in Firelight

Disclaimer: As I said before.

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**Red by Rockinfaerie

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Biscuits in Firelight

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With tired eyes Minerva examined the next essay, and gradually began to interrupt the clean black scrawl with red marks and corrections. The firelight flickered on the books at her feet. When she could read no more of her student's homework, she cast the essay aside, swearing to correct it the next day. Sinking further back into her chair, she surveyed the growing clutter in her office.

A cushion had fallen off one of the chairs by the wall, and the stack of books needed to be returned to the library. Several newspapers littered her desk, as did opened envelopes and scattered biscuit crumbs. The fire cast a shimmering light on her teacup, and the remaining tea swirled in her hands.

There were no students about to break the silence – it was very late, and the cold windows were no more than pictures painted by the black ink of night. She knew she should retire to bed, but she could not bring herself to rise from the chair, and busied herself with an unfinished crossword puzzle in yesterday's newspaper.

As the letters danced before her eyes, her mind roved. The atmosphere in school these past few days had been muted, and while this was generally a very good time for teaching, she felt her lessons rather useless. Cat-making and diagrams were all very well if one wanted to pass one's exam, but her entire curriculum seemed so childish, so pointless, when the world outside the castle walls rapidly became more horrid, and those inside could do nothing but suffer.

Since James Potter's abrupt departure, students throughout the school came to know of the reason. It had come an immense shock to all.

Of course, The Daily Prophet had had a field day. Rather young, active senior ministers did not drop dead every day. Mr Potter had been a very influential man, rarely out of the news. Though Minerva did not always agree with his views, she had admired him in some respects, and knowing his son only added sorrow to the matter.

She slowly removed the lid from her biscuit tin and took one out. A light dust of sugar fell from it, and she wiped her lap before taking a bite.

It had been on his way home from the Ministry that Mr Potter had been killed.

According to the reports, the attackers had issued their fatal shot of light from a side street, and had fled the scene immediately after. As of yet, no-one had been charged, or seemed to have any idea who it may have been, though there was much speculation surrounding a so-called "resistance" movement, opposed to Potter's actions within the ministry. The media had also speculated that this movement was one of vengeful half-bloods, fearing a fascist regime that would lead to their eventual diminishment in wizard society.

Why such trivial affairs needed to have such violent ends Minerva could not fathom.

Potter had been leader in an efficient "crackdown" on small extreme groups who called themselves "Death Eaters." It was widely accepted that He Who Must Not Be Named was involved. Though many, including Minerva believed that the actions taken on groups accused of such affiliations were too harsh, it could not be denied that Potter's actions had proven very efficient. Minerva's fear that He Who Must Not Be Named would get proper political power was assuaged, and the Death Eaters and their leader were driven into the shadows, forced to carry out their activities in hiding.

But now, with Mr Potter dead, Minerva's world seemed horribly insecure. What would happen? There was no-one competent in the criminal department to take his place – Mr Potter had done more for the Ministry than the actual Minister of Magic. She assumed she would find out soon who would replace him, and she could not quell the feeling of dread that grew inside her, envisioning a forever blatant reign of terror in place of the secretive, anarchic one she currently despised.

She reached for another biscuit. This one was shaped like a star, and she bit each corner off this time. The air was still, and she drew her chair closer to the heat of the fire, draining the last of the tea from her cup.

Albus had seemed very upset – another thing that greatly worried her. She could not comprehend it. True, she had never heard Albus speak ill of him, but Albus never spoke ill of anybody. The fact was that she could make no personal connection between them, in spite of the headmaster's routine visits to the Ministry.

Someone had triumphed, the papers seemed to say, but Minerva could not think who. What good had come of this? A boy had lost his father, a woman had lost her husband, and the walls of law and order had started to crack. It would not be long before they crumbled, and who would play leader then?

Not a week went by without some tragic or violent occurrence. She had seen Albus' collection of Muggle newspapers, accounting for deaths or disappearances they deemed mysterious, but were harrowingly clear to her. There was no method to their madness, no way of predicting who would be next, and while at school she felt safe, she worried constantly about friends and family.

Minerva had already been comforter to some students who had suffered at the hands of both the Ministry and the secret societies, and she knew that her counsel would be needed many more times. It was unthinkable that someone could put a stop to the terrible goings-on in the world, but it was perfectly acceptable to everyone that the situation had just become even worse.

She gazed into the empty teacup. She stood up and thrust the lid back on the biscuit tin, and looked to the door. With deep sigh, she sat back down on the chair, and continued her gaze into the leaping flames.


	6. Dim Uncertainty

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is JK Rowling's. Anything else is mine!

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Dim Uncertainty**

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She stayed that way for a long time, warm and comforted in Albert's strong arms, her ears muffled by his robes, the stillness of the hallway accompanied by the ticking of a nearby clock. Murmured voices from below drifted up, with their tinkle of glasses and the odd plink of the piano. Over Albert's shoulder she saw their reflection in the wide mirror on the wall. She seemed so small, so helpless, and was so cross with herself for feeling it.

The hallway was sparsely lit by a glowing candelabrum hanging from the ceiling. It cast dim shadows on the light wallpaper. A small number of portraits and photographs were hanging there, and all figures in them snored softly.

She inhaled the musty smell of his dress robes, and sensed that she was searching for something that did not exist. He patted gently – she could feel the heavy, rhythmic thump of his fingertips on her back. It didn't take long for her cheeks to be drenched with warm tears once more, but she did not make a sound.

Suddenly she pulled away, embarrassed.

"I - you shouldn't see me like this Albert - I'm a mess, really," she spluttered.

Moving away, she turned to the mirror, her reflection growing clearer as she approached. Albert stood behind her, watching her carefully. Her reapplied make-up was still intact, but her hair had become undone, and her eyes smudged and red once more. She cast them downward to a vase of flowers on the table, and fingered their stems carefully. The petals had closed in the dark, and she wondered if they would ever open for her again. With a fresh wave of sadness, she realised that Harry had bought them for her, only a fortnight before. Already many leaves had fallen, strewn on the dark mahogany table.

"Nonsense dear," he replied seriously, and she looked up at his reflection again. "You should not hide you fear and sadness from me – we have known each other for so long." The corners of his eyes had crinkled into a kind smile.

She wiped her eyes, sighing loudly, and then faced Albert again, her back to the wilting flowers. She felt as though she were a child again, discovering her ineptitude at certain games. Angrily, she had discovered, on this awful occasion that life could not be planned and laid out, like a nice soiree or the clothed table that accompanied it. Smoothing down her robes, her thoughts returned to the guests downstairs.

There were so many guests downstairs, all waiting for her to talk to them, to engage in sombre conversation. Most of them were Harry's friends, who had known him well. Many were in the Ministry, and these she only recognised from their monthly calls to the house. Some other guests were Lucius' former Hogwarts friends, and sons of the Ministry guests.

James must have been as lonely as her, she thought with a certain degree of guilt. Sirius Black had not been there tonight. James' best friend had only been present for two days since her son's return from school. Sirius was a frequent guest during the holidays, and he and Harry would often engage in conversation.For this reason he was often the secret object of her envy, as strange as it seemed. Yet she was very glad that James had such a person, other than Lucius, to confide in and to talk to, and to consider as a sort of brother. But Sirius had had to go back to Hogwarts – he was not, after all, a direct relative of Harry. And tonight, Mrs Black was downstairs, and according to James, the animosity between this mother and son had only grown since Sirius' bitter departure from the Ancient House of Black.

There were also her own friends from the Kensington Quidditch Club, and the few friends she and Harry had shared, like old Madam Demarchalier, with whom they often holidayed.

She looked closely at her face in the mirror, and drawing out her wand fixed her appearance. Albert was looking at her cautiously.

"I suppose I shall go back downstairs –," she said quickly. "The host can't be expected to disappear like this – and I must find James – oh, I sent Lucius to find him for me, and you know Lucius, he's very competent at locating people…"

Albert took her in his arms again, hushing her softly. His soft hands were gathered around her small waist, and though being held like in Albert's fraternal fashion made her feel very protected, she had to think of the guests.

"No, no Albert. That's – I have to go back down, I have to. People are waiting for me, and if they don't see me they might think, oh I don't know, that I have fled, or -"

But Albert led her to the armchair by the window as she spoke, and she unwillingly sat into it. Albert knelt down beside her, his face half-hidden by shadow.

"No-one expects you to be there all the time, dear," Albert soothed. "They know what a terrible time this is for you, this so sudden business. I do too."

"But they're Harry's friends!" she protested, pushing Albert away again and standing up. "I must talk to them! I need to, I have to find things out, I want to know what cause…" she paused, looking down to the wooden floor. "I want to know why my husband is dead," she said quietly, her words trembling.

Albert got up to follow her as she walked determinedly down the hall, and then the stairs, and onto the tiled floor of the entrance hall. He came up behind her and squeezed her arm.

"It's all right dear," he whispered. "I won't stop you. I just want you to know that I'm here for you. I know it's horrid to deal with such matters as the ones you are facing, but instead of stopping you I will salute you for your bravery."

The large oak door was just opposite them, and from behind it the voices came. In one way she wished to burst into the room, and talk forever to everyone about anything, and at the same time longed to stay there, in the empty entrance area, with Albert's protective arm on her shoulder. It seemed to her that she was fated to tight-walk the threshold of these affairs.

She heard footsteps approach behind them, and she turned to the curving stairway to see her son and her brother descending. James was looking very pale and his hair was messier than it had been previously that day, but she was very relieved to see him again. Lucius wore a sombre smile on his face.

"Oh Lucius, you found him," she said breathlessly as James casually jumped the bottom-most stair.

"Yes, safe and sound," Lucius replied. Her younger brother looked so grand and elegant, and as he strode past James to greet Albert, she was at once reminded of their own father.

"Now that you have found your son," said Albert, eyeing James approvingly, "will you join us in the drawing room?"

She gazed at the door. Lucius' hand was on it, ready to push it open. She was hesitant. Albert looked at her expectantly, and she did not wish to disappoint him, but James had backed away.

"I will join you later," she replied, looking at her son.

Nodding their heads comprehensively, both men entered the drawing room, and for a moment the voices inside grew very loud as the door swung open, and then it closed, turning their loud words once again to slow muffles.

James looked at her, somewhat surprised though grateful, and she led him to the study at the other side of the house. They walked in silence as they usually did when going anywhere. The torch brackets flickered on the wall, and she could feel the rhythm of heat and cold that hit her face as they walked past.

They entered the study. It was Harry's study. It was the only room in the house that had been untouched since his death, and she felt somehow that it could serve as a secluded place for her and her son to talk, away from the rest of the world.

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	7. Tea And Tears

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is not mine. Anything else... is!

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**Red by Rockinfaerie

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**Tea And Tears

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There had been no trace of Lucius' previous madness when his mother had met them in the entrance hall, and he thought not to mention it to her as they entered his father's study. She was more tired than he had ever seen her, and as she led him into the room she sat down in the large, comfortable window seat. The dark lawn was stretched behind her, and beyond the glass James could hear the rustling of the leaves outside as the growing winds tore through them.

It was the only room he liked in their townhouse. It was smaller than the others, and lined on all sides by dark bookshelves, filled with well-worn volumes on a wide range of topics. It had no fireplace, but was always warm, and there were plenty of narrow windows, unflanked by curtains of any kind. His father's desk was at the far end of the room, and behind it was the black leather armchair. As James glanced at it, he almost expected to see his father sitting there, reading a book or sharpening a quill. But it was empty.

Though James was a frequent visitor, his mother had rarely entered the study unless she wanted to urgently speak to his father, and he supposed this was one of those times. She was staring fervently at the tea tray on the little mahogany table beside her. The cup, saucer, sugar bowl and teapot were speckled blue and white, like a diricawl's egg.

There was tea in that cup, but the tea was ice cold; the tray had not been moved for days. Nothing in the study had moved since his father had left it. His father liked tea – he would often drink it, even on hot days. James had never cared for it much.

The tray had always sat, ready in the study, waiting patiently for his father's return from the Ministry, and the cup would fill itself when his father entered, and he would sit down on the window seat – where his mother sat now – and he would perhaps pick up that day's paper and flick immediately to the sports section.

But James' father had never returned, and the tray stayed there, still waiting obediently for its master's usage.

It seemed a mistake then, that his mother should sit on the window seat silently, and that the tea should remain untouched. His stomach was tight as he walked over to her and sat next to her, his back pressed against the cold window pane.

She turned to him and touched his shoulder gently. Her eyes were brimming – James had never seen her like this before. Her blond hair fell down in pieces around her pretty face, and she may have seen the shock on his own, as she pulled him into a warm hug, something she had not done since he had reached adolescence.

This was something that was not present at Hogwarts. No-one hugged you when you were down, no-one could tell instantly that you were upset, or angry – and if they could no-one did anything about it. He had forgotten what it was to have this sort of person, someone who knew what it was to be similarly troubled. His mother did not care that the shoulder of her robes were getting wet with his tears, or that his were wet with hers, even though he was sixteen and a Quidditch captain.

He had often felt that he and his mother had little in common, and six years of boarding school had done nothing to further their knowledge of each other. But now, with her arms around him as if he were a little boy again, and her shoulders shaking under his, he felt an odd, detached sense of unity with her.

His mother was hushing him now, and he pulled away, removing his glasses and wiping his face, his eyes sore and his cheeks stiff with salt. She had pulled out a handkerchief and wiped her face too, but her make-up smeared on it, and as she saw the bright blotch of red lipstick she sighed, and said, "Such a mess. I knew it would all wash off, but I persisted in applying it anyway!"

She wiped her entire face clean, and James smiled sadly. His mother removed her hair clip, and it all came down to her shoulders, then straightened up, brushing down her robes. She reached over to the tea tray, and touched it, withdrawing her hand as soon as she did so.

"I've always hated tea," she said, turning away from the cold cup and saucer. "And he always loved it!" She pressed her handkerchief up to her cheek, and looked at her son. "And I will always love him."

Her tears had started to flow again, and she dabbed at them in a frustrated manner and said to herself more than to James, "Oh, to stop this dratted flow of tears!" She closed her eyes, leaning back on the glass, breathing heavily.

James' eyes roved the books on the shelves around him, in some vain desperation of finding one that would solve both their problems, and to remove their current emotionsand put them somewhere else – anywhere – the lawn, that couple, the teacup, anywhere other than in themselves. He glanced at the empty armchair again.

His mother rose from the seat, and walked to the shelf in front of them, as though she had read his mind. "Oh dear," she said grimly. She traced a finger along a line of books on the second shelf – the old charm books. "So many books – I don't think I shall ever have the time to read them all," she sniffed. She seemed so small and vulnerable next to the giant bookcase, and it dawned on James that she would need protection – and he was now man of the house, a position he had never desired. "He did love his books," she said, as she opened one. Its jacket was coming off, and ripped in places.

"He did," replied James stiffly. It did not seem right to say "he did," when he half-expected his father to be eaves-dropping on their conversation. His throat felt sore and his chest ached, but his eyes were now tearless, and it seemed hopeless to cry without them. He was finished with crying. Crying had made him feel better, but he did not want to cry again. He went quickly to his mother and took the book from her hands, and with his face close to hers – he had to bend down slightly, whispered, "Who did this?"

His mother looked down for a moment, and he saw that her eyelashes were wet. "Why, Sebastian-Stuart Pixley! I thought you knew that dear – it's on your syllabus this year," she replied.

"No," – and James shoved the book back on its shelf – "the… the…"

His mother looked so inquisitive, as though she didn't know, or as if she thought he was about to talk about his schoolwork – which was now the furthest thing from his mind. Her eyes were clear, and he was amazed by her ability to change the conversation so abruptly. Now his father's death seemed highly inappropriate for discussion, and Charms class did.

But it was urgent, so he took a deep breath – "Listen to me. I want to know who killed my – "

He heard sharp, quick footsteps against the tiled corridor outside. He would recognise those feet anywhere – he had grown up with them running around his home. It was Lucius.

His mother turned away from him in sorrow, and her voice sounded more serious than he had ever heard it. He had grown up listening to her joking with friends, and gossiping with people in the Quidditch Club, but now her voice had no jovial tones; she spoke so low and quietly that he had to turn his ear to her, and he felt emptier than ever before when he heard her say, "I don't know James. I don't know."

She fingered the trim of her handkerchief carefully, and turned just in time to see Lucius enter. He was still perfectly intact – and he had given his hair a re-combing. He looked anxiously at his sister and nephew, and asked, "Is everything alright?"

Of course nothing was alright, James thought miserably as his mother walked over to Lucius, saying "Oh dear, the guests -what a dreadful host I've been!" She looked under the window seat to retrieve her bag, and James could tell she was close to tears again.

"I think it's perfectly acceptable Sister, under the circumstances," said Lucius, putting his hand on her shoulder, and she gazed at him sadly. Their hair colour was the exact same, James thought, but they were so unalike otherwise. His uncle must have felt his glare.

"Poor James," Lucius added, his voice and eyes lined with false sympathy. "I can't possibly imagine how difficult it has been for you." His mother looked up at her brother gratefully. "Losing a father – it is not something I can recall." His eyes were cold and his face was stony, and James tried to avoid looking at him. He looked past his uncle to the empty leather armchair at the end of the room.

Both his mother and uncle turned to go, to go back to the living room, to the musty smell of dress robes, to the officials, to the glasses, to the guests, glad to be at some sort of soiree. His mother looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head. Lucius hooked his arm with his mother's, just as that mediwizard's had been when James had encountered her in the hall. Her expression turned to one of understanding – she always did understand his expression – and she and Lucius left. The door still open, Lucius could be heard clearly in the study, discussing James' emotional state in low tones.

For the second time that night, it took all his energies to close the door gently, and not to slam it.

The study was silent now. He studied the tea tray, the sick feeling growing in his stomach once more. The armchair was still empty, and James walked resolutely towards it, his own footsteps echoing against the wooden floor.

He was hesitant for a moment, and stood there, absorbing the creases and shine on the black leather.

Then he sat into his father's special chair, his head in his hands, his elbows digging into the hard desk, his fingers pushing his hair away from his head.


	8. Purely Conversational

Disclaimer: Not JKR!

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Purely Conversational

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Affairs at the Ministry had been busy and time-consuming, and more than once she had lamented at the fact that she had not thrown a party in the townhouse for so long. Harry had said that there were much more important things in life than parties and socialising. She had always maintained that it was quite all right for him to say such things – he wasn't much of a talker.

When she was in her twenties, and James still lived at home, there were often social gatherings in the townhouse. She loved to throw dinner parties in their large dining room, keeping wine and conversation flowing, and in the summer months would hold lawn parties for her friends. At first Harry had been happy to attend, but soon it seemed that her friends' conversation bored him, for he told her that he would rather spend his time in their country place at Godric's Hollow. Though it was undoubtedly a picturesque village, Godric's Hollow was not what she would call the centre of the social scene, and while she appreciated the time spent there with James, she would often get lonely, and felt more at home in London.

It seemed that the Ministry was on her side, because in recent years she and Harry had moved to London permanently. Harry had said only a few weeks before that politically, the Ministry was in dire straits, deeply divided and weak. It was rare that her husband spoke to her about his work – politics bored her.

Though she had grown used to Harry's absence at home, she had not understood why the Ministry was taking up so much of his time. He would spend whole days there, but her friends never seemed to understand her concerns – after all, he bought her everything she wanted.

Now, seeing the guests around her in the drawing room, she wondered how Harry would feel, honoured by a grim social gathering. For that was what it was. All around her she could see Harry's associates speaking solemnly, their faces lined. Now and then one would approach her to express condolences, but after that there seemed little to say – their paths had rarely crossed.

On entering the drawing room she had stayed at Lucius' side. They took part in conversation with Albert and his Healer friends, mixing hospital talk with past Hogwarts days, reliving Quidditch matches of their youth, hoping to include her lightly by mentioning James' progress on his team, and she accepted their compliments with polite smiles.

Her eyes roved the room to find someone else to listen to – uncharacteristically, she didn't feel much like talking – and she spotted Madame Demarchalier in the corner beside the fireplace, chatting with Mrs. Black. She excused herself, and made her way quickly to them. Mrs Black was significantly older than she was, and she often felt intimidated by her. The older woman wore a round hat on her head that she had refused to take off, and looked coolly at her, as though it was her fault that Sirius had left home. Isabelle Demarchalier eyed her sympathetically, and for once, Mrs Potter had simply no idea what to say. She looked at the photographs on the mantel, and Harry and his relatives smiled distantly back at her.

"Your robes are marvellous dear," said Mrs Black, but her voice was still glacial in her attempt to break the ice. Mrs Potter was rather surprised to be complimented so suddenly, and she looked down at her robes as though she had just realised she was wearing them. She did not usually like her dress robes to be black, and had not imagined that she would ever wear black dress robes while hosting a large gathering at her own house, but she had never envisioned that such an occasion as Harry's death would ever arise.

"Thank you," she replied shortly. Mrs Black's own dark dress robes seemed well-worn – as did everything she ever was seen wearing, and they suited her, with her pale skin and greying hair. She wore black gloves that reached her elbow, and they shone in the firelight. There was a hole in one of the fingers, but the wearer didn't seem to care. It was as though her house was so important that she did not have to care about something as trivial as a hole in one's glove. Mrs Black didn't think her relevance as an important figure in high society could be achieved through fashion, and as a result, it was often thought that she wore her lineage proudly, and literally. Sirius' mother stood straight and tall, and now, in her shadow, Mrs Potter moved slightly, for an odd moment trying to escape it.

"You know, Albert has just been telling me," Mrs Black said, looking around for him, "that the new head of the Artefacts Accidents unit in St Mungo's is a half-blood. Can you believe it? I'm sure he has no clue of magic. How can he, what with Muggles in the family, patching up their injuries with thread and plaster?" She shook her head in disgust.

Albert had told Mrs Potter of this, and it was indeed a shame that the head of such an important department was not one of their own. Her sentiments on the matter of pure-bloods and half-bloods were rather vague – she didn't know any half-bloods, except for the woman who cleaned the house occasionally – household spells had never been her forte, and of course James' old nanny. They were unavoidable on Diagon Alley; she would often pass them on visits to her couturier, but she never took a good look at them. They could carry on with their business and she hers. She had never even talked to a Muggle-born, though apparently there was a significant number in James' year.

"Plaster, is for building," Mrs Black continued, waving her red cigarette holder with ease, "and thread, is for clothing! Don't you agree?" She looked expectantly at Healer Melvin, one of Albert's friends, who had appeared at her side.

Melvin laughed and nodded fervently, handing her a glass of clear liquid. Isabelle stayed silent – she usually did when a group began to form, and watched as Mrs Black sniffed her glass. Mrs Potter nodded, though she had never had any experience with construction spells or sewing charms. She certainly didn't like to think of the idea – being sewed together did sound terrible.

Mrs Black knocked back the glass, and a few more of Albert's bloated colleagues joined the group, Mr Black being one of them. He stood at his wife's side, and Mrs Potter noticed that he was considerably shorter than her.

She turned away from the Blacks and the rest of the group for a moment, observing the other guests in the room. Before, her mind had been an unseeing haze, but now she recognised people from various areas of her life – Alice and Frank Longbottom sat by the window with Frank's mother – they were acquaintances of Harry's and she had spoken to them on her brief visits to the Ministry. They were aurors, roughly the same age as her, and very well known. It was an instantly recognisable name; "Longbottom" was synonymous with wireless reports and the front page of the Daily Prophet. In spite of their fame, they kept to themselves and rarely showed at parties, and had been a married couple for as long as anyone could remember.

"… and what use would sewing be, if my ears turned to cacti? I'm sure that the half-blood quack would fly a mile rather than see me," the stately, greying woman slurred, "and wouldn't that be a laugh," she asked Melvin darkly.

Mrs Potter didn't excuse herself this time, but walked quickly to the Longbottoms, who looked quite out of place. They looked up as she approached, Alice offering a warm smile, but Frank's mother took Mrs Potter's hand in her own and commiserated graciously with her.

"A great man," she said resolutely, "and I'm sure you know it."

Mrs Potter forced a smile, which by now was proving extremely difficult, and she avoided eye contact with Frank, who was looking at her kindly. She was unused to such benign sincerity among her guests. She walked them to the hallway, where she stood, somewhat awkwardly awaiting their departure. Frank held the door open for his wife and mother, whose red handbag swung freely from the crook of her arm, before nodding to Mrs Potter, and exiting into the cool night air to disapparate after them.

The hallway now empty, she leaned against the wall, again facing a mirror. She was surprised to see that she looked older, and different. She pulled a wisp of blonde hair away from her face and secured it in place with a flick of her wand. She raised her hands and touched the areas below her eyes, which had darkened with fatigue. Biting her lower lip, she looked once more to the front door, and it looked strange too, as if it was separate, and no longer a part of her life. There were more photographs around the mirror, and she looked closely at one of Harry and his brother, whom she had never met.

For a fleeting second she wondered what it would be like to run through that door and follow the kind Longbottoms, and fly to some distant land, where she could… but she did not want to forget about Harry. She did not want him to leave her mind, but she did not want the horrible, heavy feeling inside her that grew with every passing day. She longed to think of him without sadness, without regret. She did not want to be reminded of him by every report, by the Ministry, by her friends. Lucius would understand – he always did. But Lucius was so busy these days, working tirelessly with the Ministry, and James would go back to Hogwarts soon, where he – and on some level she hated to admit it – belonged.

Leaning back further against the wall, closing her eyes to the red wall covering, and hoped that no-one would emerge from the drawing room to find her there. She lowered her hands to her sides, trying to relax, but could not drown out the voice of Mrs Black.

"What is it," her voice carried through the doorway, "about the top jobs going to half-muggles? Next thing we'll have a half-breed Minister for Magic…"

"A werewolf!" one voice quipped, a voice she did not recognise, and there were a few chuckles among the group inside. Mrs Potter opened her eyes and found herself imagining a furry, bent-backed witch in pinstriped robes, fleeing at the sight of a full moon.

"Or a vampire…" tried Healer Singh, and his suggestion issued more laughter for its implausibility. She nearly smiled, thinking about a leader in shiny robes and a high collar, with a bright white face and bloody chin, relocating the Wizengamot to some unknown forest.

"How about a Muggle while we're at it?" Lucius asked seriously. "Throw all our affairs to the Muggles. They'll know what to do…" Of course the group around him erupted in muffled mirth. Lucius and his jokes. She could nearly see it, Lucius looking up to a confused man with a round head and strange, bright clothes, sitting at his desk as he displayed a tangled mess of metal pieces and wire, gawking rudely when a broomstick flew by or an owl delivered a letter.

"And do you know what the most frightening part is, Mrs Black?" Lucius asked. "It just may happen."

"Now come Lucius! I think that's taking it a step far," said the first voice, and she heard many others agree.

"Well…" she heard her brother reply, "We didn't think they'd let a half-blood be in a top position at Mungo's, but look at the Artefacts Accidents Unit." There followed a series of murmers and musings. Mrs Potter wondered suddenly what it would be like to be treated by a Muggle mediwizard, and she wondered what she would do if he or she threatened to cut her open or sew her up with a needle and thread. She reminded herself not to get into any accidents like getting her ears turned to cacti, or she may have to face some such scenario.

The entrance hall had become very cold, and she didn't wait long more before re-entering the drawing room. The following hour was spent in light, cautious conversation with others, and the guests steadily tapered out, and for once in her life, she was glad to see them go. The Ministry people shook hands with her and her Quidditch Club friends kissed her cheeks, promising that they would talk soon. Soon only she, Albert and Lucius remained.

The house was emptier now than it had been before the guests had arrived, and filled with silence. She sat close to the fire, her tired eyes barely focusing on it, and absorbing the comforting heat that warmed her body, her chin in her hands. Lucius and Albert did not disturb her, for her mouth was curved downward in a tight frown.


	9. Exploring the Drawer

Disclaimer: As said before...

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Exploring the Drawer**

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James could hear the front door repeatedly opening and shutting, and he realised with some relief that the guests were leaving. He could not have returned to the drawing room to listen to their stupid talk and pointless comments.

He raised his head from his hands, looking once more at the tea-tray. It just wasn't fair. His head was pounding; he wished never to see Lucius again, nor any of his friends he had insisted on introducing him to. He hoped his mother would be all right; it was as if she had removed a mask when he saw her cry, as if suddenly nothing was as it seemed; that he could no longer trust his mother to see fun in everything. He wondered if he would ever have fun again.

Why was it, he asked himself, that he always felt trapped in his own home? Did other people feel the same way, as if they had to think before they said anything, or were always pretending to listen, never actually hearing what anyone said? This was not a new feeling. He had known it as far back as he could remember, that no-one in their community actually cared for each other. They only cared about appearances, and their conversation was the dullest on earth. They never seemed concerned about anything, as if they lived inside their own portrait; circumstances would change, but they would do their very best to make sure they stayed the same.

He sank further into the chair. His father had not been dull. His father had not succumbed to their predictable ways. He had not agreed with everything they had said. Sometimes, he would just remain silent – a neutral ground. But away from these people, his cousins and co-workers, his father had been different.

He had said many times that it was not blood that carried notions of separation; it was the people. He would say that James' blood should not make him any higher or lower than any one of his classmates.

Thus, James had followed his father's dictum, and never thought himself higher nor lower than the other students, unlike some Sirius' cousins, or other students, mainly Slytherins, who thought to insult people about their parentage. Instead, he and Sirius had laughed at their narrow-mindedness, and sometimes, during parties thrown by his mother in their house, he and his father would escape from the drawing room into the study and mimic their guests, laughing at their expressions and hypocrisies.

But his father was not here now. Apart from James, the study was empty. He sighed, and glanced at the window beside him, the dark outside showing his reflection. He had never thought he looked like his father – he had black hair of course, but people had often told him that his face was more like his mother's. But now, seated in his father's chair, he thought there was some likeness, and that if he looked until his vision blurred, that he might see his father looking back at him.

He looked down at the desk, away from the window. He had never felt this loneliness. However important to him, his other friendships could never replace his father's companionship, and this he longed for. Some joke to break the tension, the way his father always seemed to think the same things as him. Without him, his life's errors had been made clear, and somehow the idiosyncrasies of the guests who had appeared in the drawing room no longer were funny. They were saddening, and frustrating.

At least, he realised, he could escape the adult childishness at school, but his father had to put up with it all the time. He must have been as trapped as James felt now, trapped by the confines imposed on him by his blood type.

He wondered grimly if he was also doomed to live forever in this fake society. He could not run away from his home like Sirius had. He would not be able to leave his mother all alone. He did not want to make her cry again.

His tired eyes wandered over the yellowing newspapers of two weeks before. James knew that his father rarely read the front pages. He would always flick to the back, to the Quidditch news. Slowly, James opened the paper to these pages, just as his father had done not long ago.

It showed nothing irregular. There was news of Puddlemere United's most recent victory. His father always had great fondness for that team. There were photographs of the revised Montrose Magpie team, and a small one of Ludo Bagman, the beater for the Wimbourne Wasps. James tried to imagine what his father might have been thinking as he read those columns, and the report of recent broom innovations.

As calmly as he could, James folded up the paper neatly, just as his father had done, and put it back on the desk. He leaned back, gazing at the drawers of the desk, wishing that Dumbledore had never spoken to him that morning during Transfiguration. It seemed that years had passed since then.

Without knowing why, he opened the top drawer of the desk, the one closest to him. He pulled it a bundle of what looked like parchment, but when he put in on the desk before him saw that it was a collection of old photographs and other things.

James picked up the photograph on top of the pile, and smiled unexpectedly. A four-year-old James waved back, sitting on his father's shoulders, who grinned from the picture. It had been taken in the countryside – there were trees in the background. Perhaps it had been at Godric's Hollow. He touched it, thinking how much simpler things would be if he were four-years-old again, with nothing to worry about except staying upright on his father's shoulders. His father winked at him from the photograph, and James found himself winking back, but his eyelashes were wet. The sides were well-worn, as if his father looked at it often.

Grudgingly, he tore his eyes away, and looked to the next in the pile. It was another photograph, without colour. His father was there again, with his arm around another man. James knew the picture well; there was one just like this in the hall. The brothers were laughing, and the uncle James had never known was wearing his English Quidditch robes – he had just been made captain of the national team. Like the one of James and his father, this photograph was also well worn, as if his father was fond of looking at it.

Looking curiously through the rest of the pile, James found an old Honeydukes' wrapper; he had sent it to his father in third year after his first trip to Hogsmeade. He was amazed that his father had kept it for so long. He also found letters that he had written to him, from his first days at Hogwarts to his exams, and birthday cards that he had made and drawn himself. There was even a request for "Ani-Magic: An Advanced Study of the Transformation of Animagi" by Wilbur Arru, from James and Sirius. His father had assumed that they were doing advanced study for their Transfiguration classes and had complied; the book had arrived the following morning. James thought with regret that his father had never known what they had managed to do, and how they had broken several Ministerial laws into tiny pieces by doing it.

As he shifted through the rest of the pile his heart grew heavier. There were mounds of detention notations, and stern letters from McGonagall about James' behaviour. His father had never spoken to him about the way he acted at school, but every September first, when he and Sirius raced onto the train, he would hear his father call after them sternly, "Behave!" Now James heard these words echo through his mind, and felt rather ashamed that he had never heeded this word. He found his O.W.L. report card, which he had forgotten about. His father had been proud of James' results, but never boasted to his colleagues, unlike some fathers.

Unwilling to delve further into the pieces of parchment and photographs, he made to put them back in the drawer. But the drawer as open as far as it could go, and the sudden weight of the pile made it fall to the floor with a loud clatter. Jumping at the sound, James kneeled down to pick it up. As he did so, he glanced at the cavity in the desk where the hole had been. At the very back there were several folds of parchment, just visible in the dark space. James grabbed them and put them on the floor beside him, surprised that his father would hide them like that.

Hastily, he shoved the drawer back where it belonged; making sure it was shut tight. He picked up the folds of parchment, and one of the photographs he had looked at earlier. He stood up, his heart beating fast.

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	10. From Genesis to Revelations

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling, and the title of this chapter comes from the song, "Police and Thieves" by The Clash.

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**Red by Rockingfaerie

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From Genesis To Revalations

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_"Mr Potter, _

_With regard to your blatant refusal in replying to us, and lack of compliance with our requests and colleagues, we must remind you of what it is you are risking. _

_You will recall from our previous letters, that we are aware o the high importance you place on your family, in particular your teenage son. We do not expect you to put his future at stake, all because of some inane, political rift. _

_However, your recent actions on "anarchic societies" have angered us. Your measures have done nothing but make us stronger. Every day more join us. It will not be long, Mr Potter, before we have an army that even the tremendous might of your Ministry could not possibly withstand. _

_As we are sure you are aware, our noble society has spread widely and rapidly. We have gained much support in our nearest neighbours, France and Ireland, and continue to educate and empower our fellows in Central and Eastern Europe_ _Scandinavia, the Mediterranean, and have been long engaged with several contact groups in the surrounding continents, each with the same ethos as our own. _

_Shutting a few of our lesser members in Azkaban is futile. The Dark Lord has befriended the Dementors; they will not remain with the Ministry for long. _

_We have watched young James for some time now, and we must congratulate you on raising quite a talented son. He would make an excellent recruit, don't you think? Or would you rather your son become a victim instead…? _

_Ignore us, Potter, and we will go away. There are ways in which we can co-operate, and no-one worthy will be hurt. Watch what you say and you and your son will live to be old men. There is no use trying to run. We are everywhere. _

_This is your last warning. We have been quite generous in the time given to you. If you do not comply with our simple request, we shall have the honour of meeting you, and you can be certain that we will be the last to do so. _

Fear had made him sit stationery, his eyes itching, and cold sweat forming on his brow. He clutched the anonymous letter in his right hand, and wished again and again that he had not read it, that he had destroyed it in a fire or had torn it to shreds. For a moment he closed his eyes, but even then he could see those words.

It was far past midnight.

At first glance, it had seemed like an everyday formal, coherent, Ministerial letter, but once read it had become sickening; an unnerving ache in James' mind, each sentence chanting dully on the walls of his skull.

There was no address, no date, and no signature. All that dwelled on the page with some hint of its recipient was a chilling insignia, printed in the same black ink as the handwriting; a sinister skull, with a serpent emerging from its wide, gaping mouth.

The skull sent a shock of familiar dread through him when he saw it; it was the same skull that glittered above ruined homes on the front page of the Daily Prophet; the same skull that decorated margins of the Slytherin copybooks. But he had never understood its meaning fully. Not long before, the Dark Mark was a vague and very distant shadow, only to be seen in grim newspaper photographs at breakfast time, but now he felt it hanging over him, watching him from its hollow eye sockets.

This society had killed his father, he was sure of it, but the perpetrators had left no Dark Mark in that vile alleyway to identify themselves. Everyone around him had assumed the half-blood organisations that his father had similarly denounced, to be the culprits. Outcast Muggle-borns, eager to prove themselves, had also been offered as solutions.

Numerous questions swarmed through him, and he gazed at the letter intently, as if the writers would suddenly reveal themselves.

He had been used as a threat, he thought with a shudder. This society had used James to make his father do their bidding. But his father had not. Hogwarts was, after all, perfectly safe, and James knew his father would not fall for that scheme, but it still chilled him, to think that this society was watching him, and knew that they could manipulate others through those they cared about.

And were they telling the truth? Did they really have support in so many other regions? Who were they? This was the question that James ran through repeatedly in his mind, as his shock developed into anger.

Four more items remained on the desk, and grudgingly, he unfolded the next one.

It contained several sketches that at first he could not comprehend. He recognised the drawings as his father's, and studied them carefully, to see if there was some sort of link to the letter.

The main image was that of a bare arm, and above the bend of the elbow was a tattoo of some sort. James brought the drawing closer, and saw with a jolt that it was the Dark Mark.

Above the arm was another drawing, this time of an oval mask, coloured in hastily with white crayon. The mask danced wickedly before him, and there were dark holes drawn where the eyes should be, slits through which the wearer could see. Beside the mask was a picture of a plain black cloak, with a large hood hanging from it.

There were diverse wand descriptions, and odd ingredients, and a collection of locations, all spread distantly – some abroad, ranging from Manchester, Birmingham, Newcastle and Hogsmeade, to Oslo, Cork, Prague and Milan. Edging around the bottom of the page was a rough sketch of a large snake, its tongue reaching up above it.

Among the scribbled pictures were blotted incantations, some that he could not pronounce. With each incantation there was a translation, indicating its potential outcome.

"_Morsmodre,_" James whispered, "_is the Dark Mark, and…_" he looked further down the page to see a phrase that appeared somehow familiar, "_Avada Kedavra - _" he felt his stomach lurch, "_… death?_"

Those words were written in green wax, and his father had drawn lines emitting from the incantation, plainly showing that it was highly powerful. Still feeling oddly intrusive, James continued to study the page, a huge pile of information condensed into a confusing heap. There were names of potions and poisons, a drawing of a Dementor, a rough map of a small town, and all over the page were sketches of the same pair of eyes, all crayoned red, as if they were drops of blood.

Inscribed at the bottom of the page was a rather short paragraph in his father's tiny handwriting, and James squinted at the page to read it, the words melting together before his fatigued eyes.

_"They call themselves "Death Eaters". They are His inner circle, those He holds in highest esteem. They are Purists. They are vicious. They will stop at nothing to obey orders. In the unlikely event that disloyalty occurs, the miscreant is punished brutally. As they say, "Once a Death Eater, forever a Death Eater." The Reign of Terror they have inflicted on us shall not cease. It is with unfaltering usage of the Unforgivable curses that they commit seemingly random acts of violence, all for the contentment of their deeply Purist leader, who calls himself…,"_

The paragraph ended in two words James had never before in his life seen written, and had rarely heard spoken. He even gasped aloud as he read them, but felt somewhat ashamed that he had not thought of it before. Seeing it so simply put, as if it was an essay topic or an author's name, James felt its mystery slide away. Apart from his father, the only person he had heard say it was Dumbledore.

Otherwise it was never spoken. He had heard some people claim that this man did not exist, that he was a myth, a personification of purist attitude and ill-begotten power. Others said this was foolishness, that of course he existed, and that they supported his ideas, and yet others said they could hear him, late at night, speaking on the wireless, or that he wrote about his ideals in the Daily Prophet. Whoever he was, he was either deeply respected or deeply feared, for his name was almost never spoken, as though by speaking it one could mistakenly conjure him.

"_Lord Voldemort,_" James whispered, for the first time in his life.

He had never before experienced the need to speak it, and it was as if he had not spoken at all, that it was his father who had spoken, his words echoing in the study. But this thought was not comforting; saying it had made the Dark wizard real, as though he too was in the study, listening to James speak his name.

"Voldemort," he repeated, trying to wave away the legendary, fearful aura that surrounded the word. There was no nobility about this fiend, nothing _lord-like _about him. Yet James shivered, sensing that he had somehow joined his father in defying the Dark wizard.

He shook his head quickly as he attempted to rid himself of that thought, and he reached for another fold of parchment, as the diagrammed page dropped with a flutter onto the desk.

James' eyes widened as a feather fell from the folds, and picked it up to examine it. It was long, and scarlet, and somehow he recognised it, but he couldn't think where it had come from. It smelled familiar; a smoky, dusty smell, and again he could not place it, or fathom why his father would have hidden it. Frustrated, he brushed it aside, picking up the next fold, half-eager, half-dreading to see what he would find.

As he unfolded it, he realised it was an envelope, and James turned it upside-down so the contents scattered on the desk. He smoothed his hair out of his eyes as he turned them over, seeing that the envelope had contained a small number of photographs. One displayed a human form of his father's sketches; a cloaked, masked figure in the distance. The second photograph featured a large old house, and the third was in a crowded street, focusing on two wizards in the same dark robes, their hoods pulled up to cover their faces. The street was quite dilapidated, and this led James to conclude that it had been taken in the unpleasant Knockturn Alley.

Just as he was beginning to think that he had run into a dead end, James saw the last photograph, and at once wished he hadn't. A seven-year-old Lucius gazed back at him, his big grey eyes smiling up at the camera, his face framed by innocent blond curls. In his young arms he carefully held a one-year-old boy with black hair, who giggled in his arms. Lucius waved back at James, careful not to drop his baby nephew.

James stared horrified back, for below the photograph his father had written a concise and abrupt conclusion, in gleaming red ink, and James felt as if the ink might as well have been his own blood, for he felt torn. He read both words over and over in disbelief, hoping that he might see something else there to render it untrue.

_"Death Eater," _he read hoarsely.

He shook his head resolutely. The blond seven-year-old in the photograph continued to grin, baring all of his little white teeth. Lucius could not be a Death Eater. It made no sense, he told himself. But some part of him was giving in, resisting James' efforts to push the last conversation he had had with his uncle from his mind.

Lucius had talked about a leader, certainly, but that leader could have been anyone, he bargained; Lord Voldemort was not the only leader. But Lucius had talked almost fanatically about Purebloods, and about how this made he and James were superior to everyone else, and that he would train James to respect his blood heritage, as if he were… and an then an awful thought occurred to him – as if James were a… "_recruit._"

His uncle had changed. His uncle had said that he had come into the power he deserved. James looked back at the list of incantations, and wondered what power it would take to utter them. He looked at the Dark Mark, and grimaced at the thought of what usually lay under it. The snake still edged around the corner of the page, and James wondered if Lucius had seen it. Then his mind returned to the letter, and to the mentions of James, called by his first name, and about how Lucius had said, for the first time that night, that his nephew was talented, and with growing degrees of apprehension picked up the letter and read it again.

With every word it sounded more and more like Lucius. He could hear his voice, his cold, recently acquired, distant manner of speaking, behind every word. His mouth was dry and his heart beat very fast as he refrained from dropping the letter to the floor.

It couldn't be. It was a coincidence. It had to be. His family was not like that. Yet James felt an icy sense of understanding as he read further down the letter, and each sentence stabbed him with dreaded gain of confirmation;

Lucius had acquired the honour of meeting his father.

From an alley as his father sought to make his way home from work.

With the "_Avada Kedavra_."

No noble society.

Just one cruel leader.

And at least one obedient member.

The act had not been the vengeance of Half-bloods or Muggle-borns, but the viciousness of the tight, secret, Purist circle that his father had hoped to put a stop to.

And his father was dead now, he thought bitterly. He looked to the photograph of the two children again, both cheerful and playing, and stared at the blond boy, hugging the black haired baby and laughing, and James felt his throat ache, and realised with a fresh torrent of sadness that he had lost Lucius too.

The scattered papers tidied themselves into a small bundle on the desk, and James gazed at the plain ceiling, trying to clear his foggy mind and think of what to do. He must tell his mother, and show her what the papers meant. A thin cloth of rain had veiled the windows, and each drop reflected the warm light of the study. It had grown steadily colder during his stay, and he shivered, goose bumps dotting his arms.

There was still one last piece of parchment he had not looked at. He shoved this into his pocket, as he could not bear to look at another scrap of potentially devastating information. He also pocketed the photograph of himself and his father, and, after hesitating for a brief moment, the picture of him and his uncle, with the declaration that he was a Death Eater. He rubbed above his elbow, thinking of those members who were marked so darkly, and the actions that should weigh on their consciences.

Someone cleared their throat from the corner of the room.

James stood up, heart pounding, and his eyes flashed furiously to the speaker, a tall, blond man in perfectly presented dress robes, whose mouth was curving into a twisted smile, his pale fingers clutching a thin wand, his eyes leering wickedly at his nephew from the doorway.

"James," the blond man smirked. "Still here, I see…"

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	11. Conflict

Disclaimer: As said before!

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Conflict**

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"Still here, yes," James answered, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.

Lucius' grey eyes flickered to the desktop, his wand fixed directly at his nephew, and James' left hand clenched the scraps in his pocket. With his right, he grasped his own wand, his hand sticky and shaking.

That moment seemed to stretch beyond limit, and for days afterwards James could not rid himself of that image; his uncle standing tall in the room: the study of his most recent victim. The high windows reflected his domineering form, and it seemed that there stood before James not one Lucius, but two, each sneering at him, their mouths twisting upwards, as though they secretly found James a figure of fun. Lucius still held the wineglass, and suddenly took a sip from it, some dripping to the floor in his haste.

James' mind seemed to have slowed down, but the thumping in his chest was so rapid it was nearly painful. He had never before felt so unsure of himself. He wished to do anything, anything to break the horrid silence that swelled within the study, and to break every bone in that wretched man's body, even to smash the reflection that similarly jeered. Yet he waited, stationary, straining his ears for someone to laugh, or to yell "joke", to dismiss this scene as some sort of game. Some distant part of him searched Lucius' face for a suggestion of jest, to tell him that it was not real, that it was a spell gone wrong, or that he had made it up himself, that he would wake up, that it had all been a dreadful nightmare.

But the clock ticked on, and the black windows showed no sign of brightening, and Lucius continued to gaze at him hungrily, shaking his head slightly.

"Shame," his uncle declared, breaking through the stillness and striding towards him, his wand still raised. "Your foolish father, and I say foolish because I simply can't bear to say otherwise, at this late stage of the night. Yes James, foolish. What man would put the lives of his family on the line for his stupid beliefs? What man," he continued, his mouth grinning further, "would not surrender to the tremendous and righteous force of the Dark Lord?" He had that same glint in his eyes, eyes that were so close James could see the red capillaries snaking around his irises.

"Only a fool would do such a thing, James."

Lucius grabbed him, his fingernails gripping into his shoulders, and James felt oddly entranced by his words; his wine-stained breath was lined with persuasion and conviction. James nodded, the area surrounding them a warm fog, and he began to feel curiously light-headed, as though his fears and worries were drifting away, as though he really were waking from a bad dream.

"The Dark Lord is a great man, James. Words can scarcely describe him. But I know James, that he would be glad of your service, your talent, and your noble lineage. You need not concern yourself about your welfare – I will look after you. You needn't even go back to that dratted school; we can leave as soon as possible."

His uncle's words echoed around him in a haze, and James only felt vaguely aware of Lucius steering him to the door, and a strong sense of revulsion at his traitor of a father. How had he dared to insult the might of the Dark Lord? The group of mystery and nobility, where great power and doings were recognised, not scorned.

"… and James, we need not also concern ourselves of the petty half-bloods, we need only converse with our equals, and soon, the world will be at our feet, and we may have it to ourselves – enslave the Muggles, murder the Mudbloods – the vermin that has the gall to wave wands among us…"

But something stirred in James as he heard this, some odd spirit that reared itself upwards at the sight before him, and it was no longer an image of his uncle's captivating eyes, but of a girl, a girl whose face he knew by rote, gesticulating animatedly in the distance, her long, straight, dark red hair streaming down her back, her mouth parted in a wide smile, her eyes sparkling wisely as she glanced at him, with a look of utter repulsion on her face, as though she knew what it was he had been nearly convinced of.

Then she was gone, to be replaced by Lucius' ugly face, his iced eyes, pale, drawn skin, and foul-smelling breath, still speaking, his eyes still fanatic and strangely famished, speaking to James as though he had established his abhorrent creed within him. James stared back, and his glazed expression appeared to have refuted Lucius' notion that his trickery had worked, for a glimmer of victory shone on his uncle's mouth.

Tricked. He had been tricked into believing his father a fool, tricked into believing himself superior, into thinking the Muggles slaves, and into considering _her _worthy only of death. He shook himself free of that tight, iron-clad grip.

He had never known such anger. The ashes that had inside him lain dormant now had ignited, wild flames coursing through his limbs. His own blood seemed to burn against his skin, hurting him, and his mind had been scorched; he could only think of one action, and that involved unleashing the utmost hurt on the man before him, the man who had now been thrown to the floor, the man who looked up at him as though betrayed, shocked, and horrified by James' sudden turn of tact.

"You c –"

Ignoring his wand, he launched at Lucius on the floor of the study, his fists pummelling into his chest, and Lucius did not retaliate, he simply laid there, his expression one of utmost disappointment. But James could not look at it. He could not stand to see that look of disappointment, that look that had for his entire life made him feel ashamed and inadequate. So he simply did not look. Rage had blinded him.

Therefore he did not see Lucius draw his wand, the wand he pointed at his nephew with little apprehension, and it was only when James' head hit the shelve behind him hard, and when books came tumbling to the floor around him, with pain stabbing into the back of his skull, that he opened his eyes and saw Lucius once more, scrambling upwards, wincing, and saw with disgust that hisown wand had gone flying away from him, to the other side of the study.

"What is this James?" he sniffed, bloodying his clean handkerchief as he wiped his dribbling nose. "What is this, this… _treachery_? Am I – am I below you?"

James' mouth was stinging, and as he brought his bloody hand away from it, saw that Lucius looked hurt, but James felt no sympathy. In fact, he felt nothing towards Lucius.

Nothing.

"Surely you would never attack young Sirius?" Lucius asked vehemently, still wiping his face clean of blood. "Even after that incident with that Slytherin… Snape, was that his name? You did not attack him then? Why me, James? How am I different?"

James was shaking. That _incident _was not one he liked to be reminded of.

"He could also have been dubbed a murderer, could he have not? Yet you prevented it, though the would-be victim meant nothing to you, just like your father, whom you rarely even saw, who _lied_ to you about matters of utmost importance, he who made you feel on a par with the worst of our world."

Lucius' tall frame bore down on him, and James rose to his knees, wondering where his mother was, why no-one had come when they heard their shouts. Lucius flung the wineglass at the wall above the desk, and the tiny shards flew everywhere, red wine spattering down on the scraps of parchment on the desk.

His uncle seemed to collect himself then, wiping down his robes, fixing his collar, glancing at his reflection to check that he looked acceptable, his wand still fixed on James.

"Well James, perhaps you _are_ among the worst of our world," he said matter-of-factly, "as much as it pains me to say your worthless father was right about one thing."

James glanced at his wand in the far corner of the study, and knew it was of no use to him – he could never have reached it. So he sat there against the bookshelf, his eyes anchored on Lucius' face. He knew there was no reasoning with him, but he felt that Lucius should get it over and done with, to stop wasting time gazing at his reflection.

But he couldn't suppress the nausea that had ripened inside him, that was now bubbling and boiling in his fiery hatred.

Lucius left the window and turned fully on James, and James braced himself, closing his eyes for what was to come.

"No James, I am not going to kill you," he said, and James opened his eyes to see the enjoyment in his uncle's face, "yet." Lucius shook his head. "No, no, not yet. You see, unlike your father, I care for my sister, and do not want to see her get hurt. Now, as you may have guessed from that letter on your father's desk, there are a number of threats listed there that some believe should be carried out. Futile, the Dark Lord knows, but at least it might scare people…"

James did not relax. There was something else going on then, if he was not to die – some similar curse that would befall him.

"But I do not want to see either of you dead, James!" he laughed, as though it was his idea of a joke. "Of course, if I were under orders, it would be different. Very different," he emphasised. "But He has said nothing of the sort. Therefore, I do beseech you never to tell anybody of our little, how shall we put it… _confrontation?_ And your revelation, whatever it may be, to all other ears is false. Agreed?"

James shook his head fiercely.

"James, you have not yet heard the conditions," his uncle persisted. "Because if you fail to comply, and if you do reveal our little secret about my, say, _participation _in a certain incident of late, or with a particular group of people, the results will be dire."

Lucius sighed as his nephew regarded him bitterly.

"What I mean by that, James, is that if you defy my wishes and divulge our secret… your father will not be the only parent you shall not see again."

"You wouldn't," breathed James, his chest tightening, fear quenching the rage that had burned within him only minutes before.

"I might not James, that much is true," agreed Lucius, wandering over to the desk, the furls of parchment there vanishing. "But there are plenty of others, perfectly willing to do it for me, and would I miss her? Of course not. The Dark Lord has taught us to distance ourselves from compassion; I feel nothing for her."

Lucius strode past defiantly, his eyes horribly sincere. With a lazy wave of his wand the fallen books flew back to their places on the shelves, and James' wand flew towards him. James caught it, and Lucius simply looked at him from the doorway, his own wand cast downwards.

"Go on James, I dare you," he sneered, smoothing his blond scalp with one white hand.

But his nephew's mind was too clogged to think of even hurting Lucius any more. He had done that, and it had not worked. Lucius had gotten up again, and now showed no signs of it. Lucius had left the room, to return to, he could imagine, the drawing room. James was thinking of his mother, his kind mother, who had comforted him in this very room, on that very window seat, not long before. His soul still ached for the loss he had just experienced, and could not imagine surviving another just like it.

So he too got up, wiping the blood from his cut mouth, and took one last look at the study, before sprinting out, his black robes flying out behind him.

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	12. Escapism

Disclaimer: As said before! And the scene at the end is inspired by the poem, "Aedh Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven," by W.B. Yeats. It's a lovely poem.

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Escapism**

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The loud sound of Hagrid's snores echoed about the wooden walls of his hut, and it was the first time in what seemed like an age that James felt properly comfortable in his surroundings. They had talked about very light matters; Hagrid clearly wanted to stay away from any subject that might upset James, and he was thankful for it. They drank huge mugs of tea with a shot of firewhiskey in each (at Hagrid's suggestion), and ate the unburnt parts of the gamekeeper's attempts at making toast.

He lay back further into the enormous armchair, pulling a spare blanket of Hagrid's about him and closing his eyes. His legs ached with tiredness, but his mind was still active, as the nights events flashed around his mind.

Years of avoiding teachers and Filch on midnight jaunts around school corridors had instilled in James the often unappreciated talent of running silently. He had put this skill into full practice as he hurtled down the stairs of his family townhouse, packed suitcase in one hand, wand in the other, fully covered by his invisibility cloak.

It had been mere moments after that dreadful encounter with Lucius, and James had hoped it would be the last as he advanced down the darkened entrance hallway. But when he arrived at the living room doorway he stopped abruptly. Though no-one could have possibly seen him, it was with great caution that he had looked inside.

There he had seen her; his mother. He still saw her now as he gazed into Hagrid's empty stone fireplace. She had sat rigidly on the sofa, her hands clasped tightly on her knees, her back to him, staring into the lingering fire. Her head was cast downwards, silhouetted by the light of the cracking flames. He did not see her face, but he knew that if he had it would have been lined with grief, the very grief he had seen her display in the study, for he recognised the slump of her shoulders, the shoulders that on any other occasion remained perfectly erect.

He had left her, he thought bitterly. He had left because he had to.

It was a notion that Lucius had involuntarily etched into his mind. Lucius, who in his father's study, had blatantly proclaimed that he saw no fault in condemning her to death. He could not bear to think of spending another minute under the same roof as his uncle, the man who to all appearances was perfect, but underneath bore a rotten core, a man who personified the injustices of his society that he had, up until now, not understood.

James had imagined then, as he did now, what it might be like, to live in deception; pretending to his mother that he still thought Lucius to be something of a kind mentor or older brother. He had thought horribly what it might be like to sit and eat at the same table as him, knowing all the while that Lucius and his group of noble lies were responsible for the empty chair at its head.

He had unwillingly envisioned the vile actions Lucius might force on him as part of that group. The idea of lying to his mother on a daily basis for the rest of their days, and committing fiendish acts of violence to others had made the knot in his stomach grow tighter, and he knew that he could do no such thing. But if he did tell her the truth, he knew she would not believe him, and far worse, she could be… killed.

Thus he turned his head away from the ash-laden grate, as he had from the loving, familiar creature in the armchair by the warm fire, and saw again, as he felt a heavy drop slide down his cheek, her stricken face in the study, and he knew that he had not wanted to further add to her troubles. So without another glance at her and feeling as though wading against a strong current, he had opened the front door and walked out.

An icy jet of wind pushing against his invisible self, he shut the door noiselessly behind him. There, standing on top of the old stone steps, he had felt a sad sense of liberation. Breathing deeply, he descended, and had known at once that he must get back to Hogwarts.

He had never thought to use Public Wizard Transportation before – his family had always used the private, comfortable Ministry transport, and the Hogwarts Express was of course only for the closing and opening days of term. But there was a first time for everything, he supposed, as he sunk against Hagrid's cushion. The sky had, for the past two years, been under strict Ministry surveillance, and though James didn't usually side with rule and order, he had known that to be caught by the Ministry meant being sent back to Lucius. He shuddered at the thought. PWT had been his only option.

Afraid that Lucius would be out after him if he did not act soon, he had pocketed the invisibility cloak, and made to flag down the Knight Bus. His watch told him then that it was two hours past midnight, and the street had looked deserted, the road devoid of cars. He had been just about to step to the kerb, however, when he was distracted by a Muggle couple rounding the corner, the same couple he had seen from his bedroom window.

He had sunk back into the shadows. He didn't know their world, the world that tried to deny the thick dark sky that had hung above him, with dazzling yellow light that emitted from tall poles at the edge of the footpath. He did not know much about those people who lived parallel to him, who wore odd clothes and shoes.

The man had been laughing loudly, and the taller blonde woman held her red hat in one hand, her beau's hand in the other. A Lucius-like stench of tobacco drifted towards him as they came near, and when they caught sight of him he had attempted to hide himself, stowing his wand away from their curious eyes. They fell silent, and gave him an odd look, as if they knew he was different, and James had looked down at his black dress-robes, which made a stark contrast to the woman's matching coat and hat and the man's slacks and shirt. The couple had continued past, resuming their talk once they were several feet away.

James had jumped away from the railing, glaring after the couple, for they confirmed his lack of belonging there, and went once again to the kerb, careful to see that they were far enough away. The windows in the houses opposite were dark, and he knew that if he didn't do it now he never would. He stuck out his wand resolutely, and with a startling "BANG" that he thought even Muggles would hear, the Knight Bus had appeared.

The driver of The Knight Bus was a large, rotund man whose mouth hung open in astonishment as he gaped at James, who in his formal dress robes had clashed as much with the shabby interior of the bus as he had with the Muggles. Avoiding the driver's eye, and with a glance to the placard bearing ticket prices, he paid him.

"Hogsmeade," he said casually, hoping that the driver could not tell that this was his PWT debut.

The driver grunted, and gestured behind him. Brass bedsteads lined both walls of the bus, and James made his way down the aisle between them, and had tried not to disturb their sleeping occupants, most of who, he supposed, would have stared at him in the same way as driver had they woken. He sat down on the bed at the very back of the bus, the last remaining empty one on the bottom deck. His eyes pressed against the glass he had watched the house disappear from view; the long narrow windows, the steep stone steps and the large red front door, cast false Muggle light, before the bus jolted and they were suddenly bumping down an uneven, coastal road.

He had felt no urge to sleep, and listened, as he did now, to the low snores of the sleeper near him. Most of their heads had been covered by heavy quilts, and there was an unpleasant odour about them that James was not accustomed to.

As it turned out, his intention of staying awake was in fact shared with another passenger; his nearest neighbour. As James had tried to focus his mind on matters other than his currently dire family predicament, he had seen two bleary eyes watching him closely from the bed next to his own. James quickly looked away – he was not particularly game for making eye contact with wizards he had never met; it was simply not done in these dark times.

"The name's Fletcher," the man swiftly said, holding a grubby hand over his headboard for James to shake, and directly contradicting the rule about not speaking to strange wizards. "Mundungus Fletcher. Dung, f'you prefer."

His chin was covered in stubble, and the coverings about his head were wrinkled and filthy, and seemed to suggest that he had slept on the bus for days. There was a stench about him James usually associated with the Leaky Cauldron – back in the day when it was crowded – a bitter, unpleasant smell, reminiscent of onions and stale whiskey.

"Dung?" asked James, in spite of himself, though he declined to shake Fletcher's hand.

"Yep," he replied, "Or Mundungus – take your pick mate." He produced a pipe from his pocket, and tipped some dark powder into it. Lighting it with a flick of his wand, he stuck it into his mouth, and soon was basking in a peculiar yellow haze that made Fletcher's eyes droop.

James withdrew his gaze from the man beside him and wished he had gone upstairs, where he could have escaped into his own thoughts.

"What the bloody 'ell happened to your mouth?" Fletcher asked from behind his pipe, and James instinctively raised his hand to it.

"Nothing," he had answered shortly.

"Nothing my arse." Fletcher replied, sinking back into his pillow. Then he raised his pipe to his mouth again and blew a whirl of yellow smoke into the stuffy air above them. He leaned on his side; his chin supported by his fist, and grinned at James. "What's a _Charlie Ronce_ like you doin' here?"

James had wished himself away from the annoying man. His reflection in the window showed his pale face, and his white shirt collar, and the red of his mouth, and James realised now that he did look a sight different to everyone else on board the Knight Bus. He had rubbed his mouth, hoping the swelling might go down. He had bit it, he supposed, when he had hit the bookshelf.

"I suppose I wanted a bit of adventure," he told Fletcher cryptically, still staring at the window. James' idea of adventure did not usually consist of smelly buses, but he supposed that The Knight Bus was more exciting than the average Potion lesson.

"Adventure," repeated Fletcher glumly. "Th'only adventure most people 'ere is getting is horror." He gestured to the newspaper on his lap. "'Ear about it? Another one today – a Muggle family in Yorkshire. Says 'ere, now tha' Potter's gone, there'll be more, much more…" Fletcher shook his head, passing the paper to James.

The front page depicted a grim photograph; the ruins of a small terraced house, with charred walls and smashed windows. He thought back to the Muggle couple who had seen him on the footpath, and realised that the Death Eaters were a danger to them too – perhaps even more so than they were to him.

"How did the Muggles explain it?" he asked Fletcher, and the man looked up from the pipe.

"Hmmm? Oh, the Muggles can explain away anything. They kill each other too – they can just pin it on each other… Pureblood, I take it?" he had asked, his bloodshot eyes narrowing suspiciously.

James nodded, vaguely annoyed that he had made it so obvious.

"Though' so. 'Ee won't be after you then," Fletcher said, his grin growing wider, baring several yellowing teeth.

The bus had stopped in a dense, urban area, with scribbled brick walls and small, huddled groups of Muggles standing around shopfronts; an area of London he had never been to. The bus halted and he was thrown forward, catching himself just before he hit Fletcher's headboard. Fletcher had risen from the bed, and had put on a red cap, and was zipping up a navy Muggle jacket as he turned to James.

"Well, this' my stop." he said gruffly, waving slightly at James, but James caught him by the jacket and Fletcher's grin fell away. "Wha' you doin?" he asked, trying to pry James' fingers off it.

"My watch, Dung," James had said smoothly, his eyebrows raised, his wand pointing at the thief's stomach threateningly.

He still remembered clearly Fletcher's sour, defeated look, as he dropped the watch into James' lap with a sigh.

"Sharp runt," he had muttered, and James smirked while Fletcher sulked down the aisle, prodding other passengers awake with a grubby finger, reminding James faintly of Peeves. He arrived at the top of the bus, and then out the door which shut firmly after him. James could see the driver shake his head crossly in Fletcher's wake, and James wondered if he too was trying to rid himself of that awful, stale-onion smell.

He pocketed the watch. As he thought about it now, in Hagrid's hut, James assumed that he had been targeted by Fletcher as a poor-little-rich-boy. But he had been nicking stuff himself for too long not to know the tricks of the trade. Be charming, be talkative, and be subtle. Of course, Fletcher's failing had been in doing the first two, as no innocent wizard would ever speak to a stranger on a bus – no matter his age – in the current state of affairs with nothing to gain.

The darkness persisted outside Hagrid's hut, and James still felt as if he were on the bus, which had swayed to and fro like a pendulum. Now and then, the bus had taken its passengers to areas where rain lashed against the windows, or where a white mist would press against the sides of the bus, chilling James to the bone. Fatigue had begun to creep up on James, and he had found himself reluctantly lying down on the bed, which was, despite its frayed appearance, actually quite comfortable.

"Hogsmeade," the driver had grunted, and James had stood to attention, pulling his suitcase out from under the bed. He strode up the aisle, ignoring the wanton stare he received from the remaining passenger who had now woken; a girl no more than his age, her long black hair straggly and a cigarette hanging from her mouth, her striped stocking-ed legs tucked beneath her. He had nodded to the driver, who grunted again, and stepped off into a light rain.

The Knight Bus had disappeared almost instantly behind him, and he pulled his robes around him to keep his clothes from getting wet. As he had made his way under the dripping sign of The Hog's Head, he had been unexpectedly greeted by a well-known voice.

"James! This is something of a surprise."

He had spun around to see Albus Dumbledore, standing behind him in the dark doorway of the pub, holding a silver umbrella above his pointed hat to keep himself dry.

"Sir!" exclaimed James, equally surprised to see his headmaster emerge from a pub in Hogsmeade at such a dark hour of the morning.

"I suppose I may accompany you to the school – for I assume that is where you are going?" Dumbledore asked serenely.

James nodded, and Dumbledore held the umbrella over him too, which expanded until it was big enough to shelter them both. For a while they walked in silence, interrupted only by Dumbledore's spell to allow entry through the Hogwarts gate. James felt a surge of anger at Lucius for speaking so derogatively of his headmaster, for he knew no better than the man who had walked beside him.

"James… I am deeply sorry for your loss," he had said heavily. James thought with a jolt to the time he had last spoken with Dumbledore. Whole ages had passed since. He saw that the headmaster looked very sad. "I knew your father well."

Uncharacteristically stuck for words, he merely nodded in reply. The unrelenting drizzle had turned the path to a fine muck, and James had seen, with a certain degree of satisfaction, that the hem of his robes was covered in dirt.

Thankfully, Dumbledore did not ask why James had travelled on his own, or why he hadn't waited till daylight to arrive in Hogsmeade, or why his lip was cut. James did not want to tell anyone why he had run from home. They walked on, the comforting shape of Hogwarts growing bigger as they approached it, the headmaster stroking his beard thoughtfully.

But instead of leading him to the Hogwarts door, Dumbledore led him to Hagrid's, and it only took Dumbledore to rap smoothly on it for Hagrid to open it with a flourish.

"Professor!" he exclaimed, smiling through his wiry beard. "And – wha's this – James?"

"In, out of the rain," said Dumbledore smoothly, and he followed James inside, shutting the door behind them. On the table was an opened box, brimming with straw and chirping noises, which Hagrid hastily put away.

"None for me thank you, Rubeus," Dumbledore had said, as the gamekeeper placed three cups on the table. "I have further business to attend to. But if you would, James has had a very long week, and I'm sure he would be grateful to rest here until morning." He glanced at James, who nodded fervently. The circular moon shone through the window; Remus would be in the Shrieking Shack. Of course, Dumbledore did not know that the others would be there also, rendering his dorm empty. But the Fat Lady rarely allowed visitors at such an hour, and James was equally comfortable at Hagrid's. It was therefore sensible that he stay put, and perhaps his headmaster also sensed that for once James did not want to speak to other students. "You are excused from classes tomorrow, James," Dumbledore had added, as he reached to the door.

Only when the bright light of morning streamed through the curtains did James wake, his body stiff from sleeping in the chair. He looked across the room, and saw Hagrid's enormous form still sleeping on his bed in the corner. Suddenly restless, James rose, careful not to disturb him, and went to the back door.

He did not know why he was wandering outside – he had only been asleep for a few hours, and his mind was still foggy as he pushed the door open and stepped out into the pumpkin patch. He felt irrevocably drawn outside, and here he beheld the sky, streaming with red and orange, as though someone had splashed colour on the blank night. Hagrid's cabin still in sight, he walked down towards the lake, the trees beginning to show their April foliage. Sunrise, and he knew Remus' torment would be over, for another month. He half-thought of going to the Shack, for now, he felt ready to see his friends again. He continued under the branches, knowing he would be back in time for Hagrid's waking.

But he stopped in his tracks.

Through the gaps in the trees he saw someone. He leaned against the nearest one, too far away for him to be seen, hidden by the small green leaves. Yet he was close enough to hear the lake lapping on the stony shore, close enough to know who it was. She stood there, in the cool water, her robes hitched above her knees, her long mane of glorious dark-red hair falling away from her back as she bent down, her hand skimming the glassy surface. He stayed there transfixed, as she treaded the water around her, the streaked golden sky bathing the lake in clear light.

For a brief moment, she looked up from the water, directly at him. Sure she hadn't seen him, he retreated rapidly behind the tree again, tearing his eyes away, breathing quickly.

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**Ok, sorry about the condition of this chapter before, I had been meaning to edit it, but totally forgot! So there's the completed version, I hope you liked it. Now please, please review it!**


	13. A Much Needed Visit

**Disclaimer: **I am not JK Rowling.

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**A Much Needed Visit **

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When she woke, in the clear light of morning, it took some time for Mrs Potter to recall the miserable events of the past month. As she stared numbly at the canopy above her, each image flashed back at her, and the talk that had come with it. Unable to stay in bed any longer, she rose, and walked to the large dusty window, her moving her feet quickly across the cold wooden floor.

The sun held itself high above the slated black roofs. It was a cold, dry day, and she watched the gleaming cars drive below, their occupants hurried by some unknown business. Muggles crossed the road, their clothing so structured and strange. She stared at them for some time, watching their progress as she would a group of ants. Some would emerge, from time to time, from the houses opposite, and she was suddenly curious to see her neighbours. There was an elderly man who stooped as he shuffled, his paper in hand, to the far end of the street, and a younger man who carried a bag full of letters, like a public service owl.

Somewhere, far beyond those black rooftops and round sun was James, perhaps playing Quidditch or basking in a sunlit classroom. Her heart ached with crushing loneliness and disappointment.

Lucius had told her that morning, when she could not find her son that James had gone. Early that morning, he had left with no goodbye. Just as his father had done. Back to school, back to the place that had separated them for so long. Lucius said it was rude. Ungrateful. Thoughtless, that he should abandon his mother at such a time, to leave home for school when he was not permitted to do so. Influenced heavily, he didn't doubt, by a certain Sirius Black.

But Mrs Potter did not feel that he had been rude or ungrateful. She simply felt empty. Dreadfully empty, as though she had been deceived into thinking that her son cared for her. When she thought of him tears spilled onto her cheeks, and she could not stop thinking of him. How could he have done this to her? How could she have let him go? She regretted returning to the drawing room that night. She should have stayed with him, and made sure he would not leave. Every morning she would run down the hall to his bedroom to see if he had returned, and on finding an empty, made up bed with no son, she would sit on it, smoothing her hands on the blanket and staring blankly ahead.

Hogwarts was his education, his home, as it once had been hers. And she hated admitting it. She hated herself for not providing a proper home in their house, for not spending more time with him. She should have cared for him, instead of the nanny. She should have been able to joke with him, to make him laugh, to speak to his friends, as Harry had. But she had always been too wrapped up in her own social game to do any of those things. And she wept.

He had sent her a letter afterwards, to tell her that he had safely arrived at Hogwarts. But it had been curt and he did not elaborate, as if not to let her see what he actually thought of her. She had resisted the temptation to send him a howler, to let him know how upset she was. But she had responded in the same cold manner in which he had written, promising to see him for the summer holidays. So shortly before he had left, in the study, with no-one else there, they had cried together. Now she found herself crying in total solitude.

And she had not seen her friends in some time. It was not that she didn't want to; the truth was that there had been a consecution of dreadful occurrences in various parts of the country, and people were afraid to gather in large numbers. They would rather stick with their families. Individual friends had been too busy, or afraid of intruding, to call. The only family she had presently was Lucius, who had kindly taken it upon himself to look after her. He never seemed desirous of speaking with her about James. In fact, his eyes would always turn cold and his young face would crease with worry.

Isolation. That is what it was. She would sit in the living room, not bothering much with her appearance, sifting through witch fashion magazines that Lucius would dutifully buy for her. These served as a slight distraction for her, but she could never escape the great burden of anxiety that weighed her down constantly. There was something bad about her son's sudden detachment, something she could not pinpoint, but knew that something awful would come of it.

There had thus far been only one break from her bleak period of solitude. Albert Milford had called unexpectedly, and she had at once felt embarrassed – her hair was not smooth and her robes were creased from sitting for so long on her favourite sofa. He too looked somewhat dishevelled – it was a very busy time for St Mungo's, what with the numerous attacks, particularly on Muggles, that had to be dealt with. His hair was longer than usual and he was slightly unshaven, but he was very concerned to see her.

"My dear, you must be so miserable," he told her, following her into the drawing room.

"Yes, I have been," she replied truthfully, "but I have been trying to keep busy," she said, folding away the fashion magazines with a short flick of her wand.

He had come to keep her company – on Lucius' orders, she suspected. They sat together, slices of cake on the coffee table and sipping glasses of calming draught – a most popular beverage in war-torn days. They talked and discussed many things, mostly about their schooldays – it seemed that everyone these days conversed about the past; the present was far too grim.

"… And do you remember Robbie Price? The look on his face when we hexed him that time, after the O.W.L.s?"

"Although he was so horribly mean – he entirely deserved it."

"Does anyone deserve their rear to be covered in itching powder?"

"And the worst kind, at that!" she laughed, for the first time in four weeks.

There was something about his fatigued, intelligent eyes that made her feel comforted, in a way Lucius' conviction could not. Albert pushed his hair away from his eyes, and she felt happy, just to watch him do it. When he grinned, his teeth flashed brightly, and he absent-mindedly traced his finger around his protruding chin.

She looked away, suddenly ravaged by guilt. She tried to tell herself that it was all right, that Harry had never looked at her with such interest, with such devoted expression. But she felt empty again.

"When did your son return to Hogwarts?" he asked after a pause, hoping to gain her undivided attention once more.

"Oh. James went back shortly after we last saw you," she replied steadily.

"He's quite a gentleman, I must say. Very smart, and so well behaved, when you consider..." he drifted off, but Mrs Potter couldn't help but feel a little proud, that Albert held him in such high esteem.

"I understand that he is a fine Quidditch player," he added, reliving conversation they had had the last night she saw him.

"Yes, yes he is. Captain now." The last time she had seen one of his school matches had been over three years ago – one of his earlier ones. The guilt rose in her chest once more.

"Pity," Albert said. She looked at him inquisitively. "There is talk in the Ministry, I have heard, of the National Quidditch League folding. They say it's too dangerous right now, for whole crowds to appear in one area. It could result in tragedy."

Mrs Potter had never cared for Quidditch as much as Albert did, but she knew it would come as a blow to James. She remembered in his second year, how James would come home for the holidays, convinced that he would play for England in a few years time. Back then, it had not been so bad. The violence that surrounded them now on almost a daily basis had been but small whispers and threats. She could never have entertained the notion that it would become so bad that she could not even socialise with her friends.

Harry's opinions on the matter of Quidditch had been too personal, too exact, to properly discuss it, and they barely discussed anything. Harry was certainly proud of James' achievements for his team, but Harry himself never played. Her eyes flitted to the small, framed photograph on the mantelpiece of Harry and his brother, a brother she had never met, but after whom they had named their son.

Albert's speech moved away from James to other things, and entertained her with stories of different patients, and the manner in which they had gotten themselves into various strange predicaments. She laughed as he talked, and she could not take her gaze away from his tanned, lined face.

When she saw him out, and when the night had fallen like a thick, blinding covering, he kissed her lightly on the cheek. The door closed behind him, and she had glimpsed his hand raised in a wave before he disapparated. She held her hand to her cheek, which warmed beneath it, and found that for once, the crushing loneliness she had felt for over sixteen years had lifted slightly.

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	14. Playing Cards and Fading Light

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognise is not mine!

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Playing Cards and Fading Light**

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"Your deal, Mr Padfoot."

Sirius grinned at James as he caught the pack of cards that sailed through the air, as the four sat down in a tight circle on the creaking floor boards.

Through the small window the last rays of sunlight could be seen, clinging desperately to the grubby glass panels. Below the narrow, peeling sill was a dusty armchair, covered decorated with faded floral embroidery. The cushions were badly ripped, and dark stuffing had emerged from the holes, now liberally strewn across the seat. It had a lopsided stance; the gait of a missing front leg, which generally took up residence in the next room.

Beside this chair was a short stack of newspapers, magazines (of the Quidditch variety), comic strips, and books, stolen long ago from the restricted section, but found to be far too interesting to be returned. The large wooden four poster had been stripped bare – its pillows and blankets taken hostage by the youths beside it.

The game of poker commenced, but their minds were not on the growing pot of Honeydukes sweets before them. Something entirely different captivated them as they attempted to quicken the time, and as Sirius nimbly dealt them their hands, each cast hopeful looks towards the window, eager to see some trace of red light glare through, some indication that the sun was failing, waiting for the full moon to triumph.

James picked up the five cards in front of him, throwing mock looks of suspicion at Sirius as he examined them. His best friend lolled lazily on the hard floor, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and his hand tucked under his chin. A trace of a stinging hex could be seen on his cheek, courtesy of Snape, who had taken his chance when Sirius had his guard down. Of course, they got him back, to their great enjoyment.

"Maybe we'll hex him again, just one more," said James quietly to Sirius, who nodded vigorously. "For good measure."

Remus' face was pale, and he was thinner at this time of the month than any other, and there were bags under his eyes. This unhealthy appearance however was cause for no concern – it merely added to their excitement for the fast-approaching night. He was not speaking very much, apparently lost in thought.

Once upon a time, he and Sirius would bewitch Peter's cards to make him lose consistently, but in recent months, he had grown wise to that trick. It made the whole game a lot less fun, in their opinion, but it was the only thing that could contain them for the short period of time between their long, muddy trek through the low tunnel and their much-anticipated transformations.

"One more thing before we start," James said, raising an open bottle of mead as they all gathered closer, tightening the circle. "I'd like to propose a toast – ,"

"To Rosemerta!" they all chorused, clinking their bottles together before drinking deeply.

"Aaah, lovely Rosemerta," Remus sighed. "Just as well she fancies the pants off Padfoot, otherwise we just might have to resort to robbery!"

"Like we don't already," laughed James, inclining his head towards the sweets between he and Peter, and they grinned mischievously.

"The pants off me?" Sirius asked the ceiling, laughing. "In her dreams!"

The rest echoed him, Peter the loudest, as they too took up their cards.

"All in?" James asked, as each Marauder placed their bet in the centre of the circle. "Good."

Sirius dutifully collected every player's unwanted cards, and replaced them with new ones.

"Moony, you in?"

Remus nodded silently, and placed three sweets in the pot.

"Worm?"

"Yep," he said, following Remus' suit.

"Prongs?"

"No, I'm out," James sighed, dropping his cards face down.

"Well, I, am in, and I'm raising the stakes!"

The others groaned, and James grabbed Peter's cushion from behind him and lay back on it, still intent on hearing the proceedings.

"Mine now," he said calmly, as Peter began to protest.

The ceiling was heavily lined; thin cracks flowed across the once smooth surface as though a bored hand had drawn them there. The plaster had fallen away in places, revealing grey slate, and the dark corners grey with spider webs. The shack was their hideout, which they used frequently, and as long as they had known it, it had always retained an unquestionably decayed look. At the centre of the ceiling was a dust-covered, broken chandelier, and the dull brass gleamed in the dying sun rays. His friends' voices echoed on the empty walls – chuckling and joking.

It was James' favourite place to be.

In spite of this, James found the knot in his stomach grew tighter, and his friends' comforting mirth was replaced by his uncle's chilling words. It was a scene he strongly wished to forget, and his anxiety was unpleasantly accompanied by a huge weight of guilt for his mother, whom he had left with little explanation. His was wholly unlike Sirius' situation. Sirius had unhappily maintained, since first year, that his family hated him, and in the past five years the feeling had grown mutual. These days, he never displayed any inclination or desire to speak to them. He refused to acknowledge his younger brother in corridors, and his brother did not speak to him, and his parents made no effort on their part to bridge the gap.

James had, more than a month ago, been unable to relate to this complex matter, but he currently knew what it was to hate a family member. Lucius had been in James' life for as long as he could remember, longer than Sirius had. His memories of his uncle had always been fond, but now they were horribly tainted, and he would wake suddenly, in the pitch dark night, seething over the things he had said, and fearful of what would happen if he told anyone.

Since his return to school, he had tried desperately not to think about it, to occupy himself with other things, to forget it, or to find that it had never happened. Yet he could not help slipping into a dark, worrisome reverie, whereby he became uncharacteristically quiet. This behaviour did not go unnoticed by his friends, especially Sirius – who (often correctly) would assume it was about his father, and would do everything in his power to cheer him up.

"I'll see you Padfoot, and raise you one… Padfoot?"

"Yeah Moony?"

"I raised you one."

"Oh. I was just thinking."

"That's surprising." Peter quipped.

"Shut up Worm. Prongs, are you listening?"

"Hmm?" asked James, who still stared fervently at the ceiling.

"Evans dumped Alexander Chambers today."

This, it turned out, was one of these times.

"What?" James asked quickly, shooting back up to sitting position beside him.

Sirius laughed.

"'Knew that would get you up! But yeah, it's true. Shame, I know," he grinned, seeing the delighted look on James' face, the dark cloud that was Lucius drifting to the back of his mind.

"Yes, I agree… they were so sweet together," James said sarcastically, laughing. "I never knew why she went out with him – he's a conceited brat!"

"So are you," Sirius reminded him, taking another swig from his mead.

"Exactly. She went out with him; why not me? Anyway," as what Sirius just said registered, "I may be a brat, but I'm way, way better at being one than Chambers is."

"Maybe that's the problem," Remus said thoughtfully.

"But I thought you had given up on her, Prongs," said Peter. "You went out with Rosie Miller in January, and – "

"Ms Miller had a head of air," he debunked.

"Good-looking head, just nothing in it," Sirius elaborated, as James lay back down on Peter's cushion.

"I can't believe it! I actually thought – "

"Yeah I know, Worm. I'm surprised too. It's hard to believe the obsession has lasted this long. Don't get me wrong Prongs, she has terribly attractive qualities, but…"

"The sun is setting."

They all looked at Remus, and followed his gaze to the window. Red beams shimmered at them, and the blank walls painted scarlet. They all stood to attention, silently watching as the sun made its last bloody descent behind the hills, its light streaming outwards like arms outstretched. The red faded from the sky and the sky turned greyer, tints of blue appearing, the shadows creeping towards them as their excitement mounted.

"So, where will it be tonight?" asked Peter.

"The forest," said James determinedly.

"The forest it is then," agreed Sirius.

Remus nodded, but he looked worried, as he always did before the transformation.

"Don't worry Moony," said James, standing beside him. "It's really cold tonight – no-one will be out – especially not in the forest!"

He grinned, and a look of adventure gleamed in his eyes.

"Ok. Look at him," he said, gesturing to Sirius. "And he's off!"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Sirius announced to the non-existent audience, "May I introduce to you… Wormtail!"

Peter screwed up his eyes in concentration, and drew a breath. There was a flash of light, and the other boys cheered loudly as a small rat appeared on the wooden floor, scattering the cards everywhere.

"The star of tonight's performance, without whom none of this could have happened… Mooney!"

Of course, Remus could not yet transform, but the sky outside was blackening. He laughed along with Sirius, his cheeks turning slightly red at being caught in the limelight, if only for a second.

"And who could forget our deer friend Prongs, and I am sure," he said to the imaginary crowd, "that he needs no introduction?"

"Nor Padfoot, the beloved doggy – sorry, fanged beast, who roams the grounds," James said with a flourish, taking to the stage as naturally as Sirius. "Make sure you

catch Mrs Norris tonight!"

"So without further ado…" said Remus, laughing at them both.

"Lead the way, Worm!" cried Sirius, and the three chased the rat across the landing, and down the rusting staircase, into the tunnel.

When they emerged, their backs ached from the stooped climb and their robes muddy, but the cold air refreshed them. Peter was barely visible beneath the frozen limbs of the Whomping Willow, and they were quick to come out from under it before it began to move violently once more.

The sky now was the deepest black, and the trees of the Forbidden Forest were

silhouettes, moving slightly in the slow breeze. Their breath came out in white vapour, and they walked to the shadowed protection of the tall pines. During their outdoor pursuits, James and Sirius always transformed outside, as there was simply no way either would fit, in their animal form, through the tunnel.

They weaved through the narrow trunks, leaves and branches cracking under their feet, their arms flailing in the dark. No-one dared to light a wand. They could all hear Peter scuffling on the forest floor, keeping up with them as they paced.

Finally, they had reached their spot, a small clearing where the trees surrounding it were sufficiently thick to hide their activities from prying eyes.

James smiled, his emotions matching his face for the first time in weeks.

Remus stared up at the sky, licking his lips nervously, and waiting for the moon to make its appearance.

"Here we go," whispered Sirius.

James closed his eyes, steadying himself, and together, he and Sirius transformed.

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**Oi, you there! You've read it, now review it!**

**By the way, many thanks to all who have reviewed:**

**Kitty228806: **Thanks for your comments, I like your writing!

**bridgitS1: **Thank you for such positive feedback! I definitely thought a link between the Malfoys and the Potters would be interesting - and Lucius is actually very fun to write! Glad you're enjoying it!

**mkiara: **Thanks for your review! Much appreciated!

**shahenshah2410: **Hey, hope you like this chapter with the marauders! Thanks for the great feedback - very supportive! Keep it up!

**ivoryheart: **Thanks, so happy to hear you like it! And don't worry, the romance will come - definitely!


	15. The Disciplinarian

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise is mine!

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**The Disciplinarian

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"This cannot continue!"

Minerva was furious. She slammed the door of her office and strode past the two teenage boys who stood resolutely straight-backed by the wall. The May sunshine was glaring through the narrow windows, making her desk gleam, and with a flick of her wand produced several notation and detention slips from the drawer, bundled neatly together, a most common sight for Sirius Black and James Potter.

Twice, already that week, they had been hauled into offices due to their astounding misconduct in school corridors. Hexing, dung-bombing, jinxing… every school offence under the sun had been fulfilled by that duo – supported, she had no doubt, by several friends, or the crowd of girls that seemed to follow them everywhere. The odd trick she could tolerate, but such behaviour, which was both unproductive and extremely disruptive to other students, had to be stopped.

She was certain they had spent more of their Hogwarts education in detention than in class, and more time out of bed than in. Other members of the faculty had informed her of their conduct outside her classroom, and at each report she was rendered ashamed that she considered them her top students. For apart from the homework she set for them, they did none, and rarely showed up at study sessions in the library. It seemed they had an endless supply of fireworks to set off at the most inappropriate of times; they did not treat many members of the staff with respect, and flirted dangerously with Wizarding Law when it came to some of their spells. And yet, when exam time came around, as it would next month, they were the two students who always got the best results.

Her colleagues had maintained that it was only she who could control them. They wanted her to discipline them, to make them see sense. Black and Potter respected her, and it was true. She rarely had to correct them in her own lessons, and so far, in her office, she had heard neither make a smart remark, or stifled laughter, or seen their eyes roll arrogantly, as she had observed in their attitude towards other teachers.

But even her office was too frequent a visit for them. They stood before her silently, almost casually, ready for the usual detentions or deprivations. Neither avoided her eye, and there was something very defiant about James Potter's expression. He stood the straightest, accustomed to good posture, and his shirt collar was neat, the tie pulled down slightly, and in spite of his messy hair was better presented than his best friend.

Sirius Black rebelled in every way he possibly could, including his uniform. The hems of his robes were scuffed, and his tie hung open around his shoulders. His sleek hair was pushed back from his forehead, and his shirt peered out from under his sweater. James' sleeves were rolled up about his elbows; a sure sign he had been up to something. They stood slightly apart from each other, but still united, and Minerva knew that either youth would refuse to be punished on lesser terms than the other.

It was a very frequent and quite forgivable assumption, made by new teachers, that they were brothers. They shared the raven-black hair, pale complexion and red lips, good looks, arrogant demeanour, and talent that made the theory very plausible. Both Pure-bloods, both privileged, outspoken and charming. But in truth, their families differed greatly.

The Blacks, it was well known, took enormous pride in the length of their ancient bloodline and tradition of Slytherin housing. Sirius Black had been an exception when he was sorted into her house, and never was seen to even converse with his many cousins in Slytherin. Black's rebellion did not apparently stop and start at King's Cross – she had heard rumours of a falling-out between him and his parents, and it had not gone unnoticed that he and his comrades barely acknowledged his younger brother, Regulus.

Horace Slughorn frequently said that James Potter displayed all the symptoms of an overdose of Felix Felicitas – he had never taken to the boy very much. While she disagreed, it could not be denied that Potter was significantly more privileged than most of his schoolmates. Wealth, social position, talent and athletic prowess had never been his choice, but the most admirable thing she had found in her acquaintance with the boy was his tolerance for others. His regard for his peers had little to do with their own standing on the ladder, or their family's wealth, she had seen. She had seen also, the positive affect this had had, over the years, on Sirius Black, who might have otherwise accepted his family mantra that all others were inferior to him. As a result, the victims of their menace never appeared to have any particular trait that linked them.

It was highly frustrating to see two such bright boys waste their potential wreaking senseless havoc in the school corridors. They had both launched at a fellow sixth-year named Severus Snape – a Slytherin, and a frequent target of theirs. Flitwick had brought them to her, exasperated, and she had angrily consented that it was up to her to punish the troublemakers.

She drew a scarlet quill from her robe pocket, and began to fill out the yellow sheets, informing their parents of their misconduct. The scratches on the parchment echoed in her noiseless office. The letters folded and sealed themselves into separate envelopes, and she looked up to see Potter eyeing one sadly. He quickly looked away from her, his defiant expression returning. He always acted defiant, as though it was perfectly in his right to act above school rules.

Minerva had allowed the silence to drag on for long enough. She knew it was more effective than yelling at them. Up close, she noticed that they were tired – there were dark circles under their eyes. Black folded his arms. Bracing himself.

"Sixth years! I cannot believe it," she began. "Senselessly attacking other students in corridors – Potter, Black – I thought you had grown out of such immaturity. To think, that younger years follow your example -"

"It was not senseless!" Potter shot back, scowling, though appearing to restrain himself in her presence.

She raised her eyebrows, daring him to proceed. Outside the door, the rustling of cloaks had quietened – classes had started again.

"And I believe Remus Lupin was there also?" she queried. "Where is he now?"

"No, not Remus," Black said. "He had nothing to do with it."

"Really?" she asked, her anger giving way to slight curiosity, though she had absolutely no inclination to show it. "Then what, prey tell, happened?"

They fell silent, apparently unwilling to divulge this information. Minerva waited patiently, and watched them as they grew slowly more uncomfortable.

"Please, do sit down – we have all day," she said bluntly, but rather than acknowledge the sarcasm in her tone both boys instantly complied, seating themselves in the armchairs by her empty fireplace.

"Snape," James sighed angrily, staring away from her and out the window, where the trees of the Forbidden Forest were a healthy green, and where the Whomping Willow, as the students had dubbed it, swayed innocently in the early summer breeze. Sirius nodded, matching James' scowl.

"Professor, he started it," Sirius growled. His light eyes flashed, and there was nothing childish about his expression. Minerva was instantly reminded of that night, several months before, when Sirius and James had stopped looking like children, when the animosity between their little gang and this particular Slytherin had been augmented.

"By doing what, Black? Elaborate please."

Neither answered her. Growing impatient, Minerva rounded her desk and advanced towards them. James was restlessly tapping the velvet arm of the chair with his fingertips, and Sirius glared darkly at the bookcase.

"He wasn't doing anything," James said suddenly, defeated. His fingertips stopped.

"Ah," she said, her frustration rising again. "So nothing justifies your actions?"

Sirius shrugged, and James just looked at her desk to where the yellow envelopes lay. Neither would look at her.

Minerva sighed.

"Detention, both of you."

She could almost feel their relief as their audience with her appeared to be drawing to a close.

"Separate detentions, of course," she said. "Every evening for the next two weeks."

James looked up at her, horrified.

"Yes Potter, every evening for the next two weeks. I did not want to see you miss any Quidditch training between now and the final any more than you. But perhaps you should have thought of the consequences of your actions before you attacked Severus Snape."

He glared at her desk again.

"And if I ever, ever hear one more utterance about your misconduct this term, the consequences will be much, much worse than a few weeks of detention and an unrehearsed Quidditch final. Do I make myself clear?"

They nodded glumly.

"Black, you are late for Charms. Flitwick knows what kept you. Potter, wait a moment."

Sirius sighed, lifted his books from her desk, and went to the door. With a knowing glance at James, he walked, and closed the door quietly behind him.

Minerva sat down in the liberated seat, opposite James, her lips pursed. He looked up at her, his glasses glinting in the bright sunlight. He sat up straighter, as though preparing himself for another rebuttal. But when it came, he seemed oddly taken aback at Minerva's more gentle tone.

"I know it has been a difficult term for you, but there is no way you can continue to vent your feelings on someone undeserving of –"

James looked strongly as if he was about to protest, but seemed to think better of it.

"If you're feeling angry, talk to someone –"

He gripped his seat very tightly, and she thought she saw a brief shake of his head.

"Snape is obsessed with the Dark Arts," he said quietly."

Minerva sat back, allowing the subsequent silence to linger. James watched her intently, and she knew instantly that he felt the unprovoked attack i>was /i> justified.

It was an accepted truth among the staff, that there were a growing number of students, mainly in younger years, becoming negatively influenced by the reign of terror that had been inflicted on the nation. They saw black magic as a power to manipulate, a fearful power, an influence over peers that could not be gained through popularity or wealth. Every night Madam Pince discovered yet another volume stolen from the Restricted Section of the library. There was a cold presence of disinterest in lessons now, as though the students were secretly learning of something they considered more important. There were whispered quotes and insults in the corridors, and teenage brawls had become increasingly violent – James Potter and Sirius Black were certainly not the only students to be routinely hauled into offices. But her colleagues were far more taken up with the darkness spreading in the world outside Hogwarts, to realise that it had taken root before their very eyes.

Deep down, she knew it could not be controlled. There was no possible way to sway them. She merely tried to direct, to guide, and was hugely thankful when she saw that a student was firmly opposed tithe Dark ethos. James, though he could act spoiled and selfish, was one of that few.

"Snape's interests are of no concern for you," she told him, walking to her desk again. She turned to him, and he looked up at her, still defiant, but curious. "And I hope they never will be," she added sternly.

"Definitely not," he replied resolutely.

"And do you believe, Potter, that fire can be fought with fire? Is one person's violent action enough to silence another?"

He was silent again. Each looked down into their own thoughts, their opinions, their respective experiences that made them go against that so many others horribly embraced.

The sky had clouded over, dulling the office walls, and a wind was weaving through the forest. Minerva knew that James was thinking the same as her – when would it end? Would they ever know a day when the newspapers did not present another grim headline, when smiling was not forced, and when others could be trusted? Or would their world continued to crumble, until nothing is left but the vilest creatures and most hateful spells? Hogwarts was an ancient fortress, and was therefore unaffected by the Giants and dragons that routinely tore apart Muggle dwellings. She did not know if the fear would ever stop, if people would always be afraid to leave their homes. She did not know if some day people would speak freely, not having to carefully watch what was said. The Ministry was in disarray. It could not cope with the attacks. The death of James' father had been a huge blow – he had been one of the few competent advisors, and his colleagues had since fled. And all the time families were torn apart – brothers and sisters on opposite sides, killing each other, controlling each other. This could not continue…

"Professor?" he asked, awaking her from her reverie. "I have to go. You know, I'm late for Charms... "

"Yes, yes," she said, growing business-like once more. "You and Black are to report to me after dinner to organise the detentions."

James lifted up his stack of books, and with a quick nod to her, and left the office. Though the door shut firmly behind him, she knew, rather than assumed, that Sirius had been there, waiting patiently for his emergence. She listened closely to the two pairs of footsteps, fading away as they walked together to Charms.

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**Many thanks to my wonderful reviewers:**

**shahenshah2410: **Thanks, you're very kind! Yeah, I finally got back to the Marauders! It took a while, but they're fun to write about, especially inthe shack - it's such a great hideout.

**lils03: **Thank you! I hope you liked this chapter!

**Equinimity: **Thanks for your lovely and encouraging review. I like exploring the minds and attitudes of the characters (and hope I'm doing it properly!). Keep reading!

**MiSs WeStHoFf HeRsElF: **Thank you! I hope you continue to enjoy reading it as much as I do writing it!

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**Please don't forget to leave a review!**


	16. Boils, Toads and Filch

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise is mine!

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Purple Boils, Disembowelled Toads and Argus Filch**

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James paused, listening as the sound of Professor Flitwick's light footsteps faded from the stone corridor. Once assured of the teacher's absence, he pulled his bag from his shoulder and dug his hand inside, his search stopping as his fingers closed around a familiar, angular object. Smiling, he pulled the old mirror out, and with a hasty glance around the corridor, ducked inside the empty classroom where he had served his detention only moments before. He sat on the desk nearest the door, and placed his bag on the seat beside it. As soon as he was comfortable, he held the mirror directly in front of him.

"Sirius?"

He only had to wait a moment before his reflection was replaced by that of his best friend. Sirius looked as tired as James felt, and his dark hair fell limply about his eyes. It seemed that McGonagall had long ago decided that separate detentions proved far harsher a punishment than otherwise, and, predictably, tonight was no exception. Poor Sirius had been forced to clean the Potions room and to sort its ingredients – a highly undesirable detention. Even so, he grinned widely at James.

"I see Flitwick let you out early?" he asked enviously.

James glanced at his watch. "I wouldn't call midnight early, Padfoot. How are the negotiations for your release going?"

"Well, by the looks of _those_, it seems like I'll be free roughly… this time next year, I'd say. Sluggy has me disembowelling toads, Prongs. Toads!" he cried, thrusting a lifeless, slimy thing in front of the glass. "I really wouldn't mind, only for the fact that it's so clichéd! I must have done this a million times – perhaps I should tell him to get some new material..."

"Don't," James warned him. "Then you really will be there until next year. Where is he now?"

"Doing exactly that – he's getting some new material – more toads in need of disembowelment, from his storeroom."

"Do you think that could be a profession – toad disembowelment?"

Sirius laughed. "Someone has to do it, I suppose. Sluggy seems to enjoy it… what would ever possess anyone to become a Potions teacher? McGonagall has gone soft on you – Flitwick's nothing compared to this. What have you been doing for the past three hours?"

"Lines, lines, and more lines," James replied in a bored voice, rubbing his sore wrist. "I've been transcribing from some stupid housekeeping book. I can now recite any cleaning, cooking or gardening spell that was in use during the early seventeen-hundreds. Can you think of anything more pointless? I even wrote it then, at the top of the parchment – "_Pointless Exercise_" – I don't think he'll even notice!"

"I still say you got a better punishment – you're a "lines" veteran! I'm dealing with toads for the next two weeks – how am I going to cope?"

"I'm missing Quidditch practice, remember? Rory Stone would have hit me if given half the chance. After all those times I told _him_ not to get into fights! So it does look like – what was it she said – "an unrehearsed Quidditch final" for me… unless I sneak down during the night…"

"There's an idea!" Sirius said enthusiastically.

"Padfoot, what in Hades were we thinking, attacking him so near her office?" James asked seriously.

"I know. That was a rare bout of stupidity, on our part. Spur of the moment, I suppose."

"And Moony was thoroughly pissed off."

"Gave us a right scolding, didn't he? As if we needed another. How did he not find it funny?"

"Yeah, what's not funny about covering Snivellus in purple boils?"

"Even if it is well, less, shall we say… legal than some other hexes?" Sirius chuckled.

James laughed. "It's not like he hasn't done it to us before, right?"

"Well, maybe not quite – I don't think purple is his thing. Anyway, I have no idea what Moony was howling about – we were defending his honour!"

"Damn Snivelly, prowling behind us, thinking he can make one of us let it slip… and after months of that, he thinks he'll get away scot-free if he says, right in front of us –"

"That we only hang around with him because of his "more monstrous qualities" – as if! Do you think we'd hang out in the Shack for one second – and do the stuff we've done – for Snivelly, if he were a werewolf?"

James shuddered. "Never. He's a slimy, unhygienic prat, and the only courtesy I have to afford him between now and the final is total avoidance. You know he'll have some trick up his sleeve, just to prevent me from playing."

"All right, you can leave him to me for the moment. That said, attacking Snivellus is a perfectly amiable way of passing one's time."

"So is toad disembowelment in some circles," quipped James. "Or so I've heard."

"Unfortunately for me," said Sirius scowling.

"Unfortunately for you," James agreed grimly.

James thankfully, did not spend much time in the dungeons any more. He had never taken to Potions as much as he had to other subjects. He had found it a tiresome, boring subject, altogether too formulaic for him. These sentiments, along with Sirius at his side and an abundance of ingredients at their disposal, had led to several interesting experiments, which in turn had understandably led to Slughorn's immense dislike for both of them, in spite of their respective families' significance. Even after he had separated them, James was able to escape from the painstaking instruction and methods displayed in the textbooks by doing what he usually did when bored – drawing. But even this hobby had been abandoned during Potions class with the discovery of an alternative passion – for Lily Evans. She was, without a doubt, the best in their class, and initial envy had given way to admiration, and then, in fifth year, to something else entirely. He had watched her carefully, from his back seat beside Remus – who he had been placed beside in the vain hope that Remus' quieter manner would rub off on him. He knew he had not been alone in the class in looking at her in this way – and after her rejection of his proposal to go out with him almost a year before, he had tried to push those feelings from his mind. There were, as his best friend had reminded him, plenty of other girls practically falling over themselves to go out with him. Thus, as she had been the only attractive aspect about Potions, he had promptly given it up for NEWT level – preferring the more interesting and less intoxicating Ancient Runes as his subject of choice, in spite of the fact that no class was complete without Sirius.

Sirius, though at similar odds with Slughorn, had stayed put, preferring a teacher with whom he was acquainted and a subject that, he believed, gave him the chance to see what Snivellus was up to.

His friend in the mirror sighed loudly.

"It'll be over fairly soon," James said sympathetically. "And see if you can sneak some of those toads into your pockets – we can put them in Snivelly's dinner – and when he's not looking –"

Sirius put his hand up, silencing him. His head was tilted to one side, listening intently. James waited.

"I hear him coming," Sirius whispered.

"Good luck with the rest of it, Padfoot," James said quickly, and Sirius grimaced before his face vanished, to be replaced by his own.

James raised his hand in a wave, even though he knew Sirius could not possibly see it. Then he stood up from the desk, opened his bag and stowed the mirror inside. With a quick look around the dark classroom, he slung the bag on his shoulder, and within minutes was striding down the wide Charms corridor towards an old faded tapestry. The staircase behind the tapestry had long been a favourite shortcut of his – it frequently allowed him and Sirius to evade capture by angry teachers, recently-hexed enemies, and annoying female fourth-years. Careful not to rouse its sleeping inhabitants, he gently pushed it aside. He ignited his wand as he entered the dark, winding stairwell, and began his ascent.

Without the warm company of Sirius, his thoughts retreated reluctantly to the letter he had received from his mother that morning. In it, she had related plans to go to France that summer, and expressed a wish to take James and Sirius along. He was glad that there had been no mention of Lucius, but it worried James that she was completely ignorant of his true nature. Now that he had had time, in the past month, to mull over Lucius' words in his head, he had concluded that for once, he would have to do as he was told. He did not want to risk telling her, or anyone for that matter, what Lucius was up to behind his perfectly behaved mask. He would never forgive himself if harm came to his mother, and though he had remained obediently silent, a feeling of dread persisted in his chest, and sometimes, during class, he found his mind drift to the day when Dumbledore had summoned solemnly him from the Transfiguration room, and fearfully prayed that it would not have to happen again. No-one would ever believe Lucius to be in active support of Lord Voldemort – Death Eaters were usually perceived to be of a lowly, grotty sort, perfectly deserving of a life-sentence in Azkaban. Such dire and violent activity was rarely equated with high-standing, wealthy families of influence, he realised miserably. He had not even told Sirius, though Sirius was one of the few people who knew this wasn't the case.

And apart from his anxiety for his mother's safety, was the fact that he missed his father greatly. Somehow, he would have known how best to get himself out of such a situation. He missed his neat, orderly handwriting in his weekly letters, and the newspaper clippings he occasionally sent him. He missed the way he gave advice that James needed, even though he had never been asked for it, or the way he subtly made jokes at the expense of his own peers. Though at this stage detention was a very frequent occurrence in James' school life, he had felt, for the first time, properly guilty of his offence. He did not feel this on account of Snape – that, he believed, would never happen. It was for his father, and that request he had issued annually to "behave." It had rung through his ears during his brief audience with MgGonagall, resounding loudest as she reached for the disciplinary notification slips. He doubted that his mother even had known what they were, he thought bitterly. What distressed him the most, however, was the information in his father's desk, information he had never divulged to anyone. The lack of a Dark Mark, and the fact that his death occurred on Muggle territory mean that it was not deemed suspicious, but James knew there had been more to it. His father's post had been that of an advisor to the Minister, and not directly connected with the Aurors. Why then, had he been so involved with tracking Voldemort and his followers' whereabouts? And the feather – the scarlet plume which had looked so familiar, and yet he could not place it…

Lost in thought, he emerged from the secret staircase, and walked slowly up the corridor which led to the Gryffindor tower. In the high, vaulted window which sidled the passage, criss-crossed by ebony frames, was a cold sliver of the moon hanging cautiously atop the frozen, silhouetted pine trees. He halted, gazing at it, and rested his elbows on the sill, his chin in his hand. The stars had been erased by the cloudy night, and the thin, white crescent appeared almost afraid to be seen, veiled behind thin streams of smoky mist. He sighed, thinking how wonderful it would be to grab his broom right away and to fly up there, far from thoughts of detention or Lucius or Voldemort or anything else that could serve as an obstacle towards such blissful freedom. He tipped the cold glass with his fingers, and his eyes travelled to the tangles mass of branches that was the Whomping Willow, which stood remarkably still.

"James?"

Startled, he whirled around to see the speaker. She stood several feet away from him, carrying a set of spellbooks in one arm. Her long dark red hair glinted in the weak moonlight, and he could see the soft contours of her pale face. Her mouth was upturned slightly, as though she was smiling, but not quite sure why. He moved away from the window, hoping that he had not looked too foolish, staring at the black night sky.

"Hello, Evans," he said pleasantly.

"Let me guess," she said. "You had detention?"

"Well done," he nodded, though in truth he felt almost ashamed that she knew so easily. "And why are you up at this hour, Evans?" He wondered suddenly if she had been outside by the lake, as she had been when he had returned to Hogwarts – the vision which had made itself permanent in his mind.

"Detention," she replied smoothly.

"Detention – you're joking," he exclaimed, as they began to walk together towards the tower, but she nodded. "Who with?" he asked.

"Sprout – I skipped one of her classes yesterday because I needed to finish a Potions essay – I honestly didn't think she'd notice I wasn't there, but she was rather angry that I was – "giving priority to other subjects" … but at least it's over now."

"What did she make you do?"

"Clean the pots in Greenhouse Seven – without magic. Thankfully I have some experience with that, but really, I think she overreacted; it took forever!  
What have you been doing?"

"Flitwick had me transcribing household spells and charms that were in use during the seventeen-hundreds – did you ever want to know how to roast a vermin without cooking the innards? - I know I didn't!"

"No," she laughed, looking up at him warmly. "So you've been missing training then?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "We'll still win though."

"Isn't that a bit presumptuous of you?"

"I should hope not," he said hurriedly, running his hand through his hair, knowing it would stand on end. Then he realised who he was with, and tried, unsuccessfully, to flatten it again.

They walked in silence for a moment, and James stole a glance at her. She walked quickly and gracefully beside him towards the main stairs that led to Gryffindor tower, and she appeared to have retreated into her own thoughts. He knew it was not his own quick pace that made his heart beat the way it did as he walked with her, and that it was not mild exercise that had created the warm sensation in his chest. In the darkness, he saw that her cheeks were flushed slightly, a result, he assumed, of the cold night air in the corridors. He had tried, on Sirius' suggestion, to forget these feelings for her, which he had presumed would amount to nothing anyway. But through a short series of girlfriends he had come to the conclusion that most of these girls at school, though pretty and rather funny, were in fact exceedingly dull, only interested in his more superficial qualities. And after each relationship ended, his thoughts had returned to Lily, who was not only both very pretty and funny, but kind, talented, intelligent, and completely dismissive of the fact that he was, among other things, captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. This, far from diminishing his feelings for her, had augmented them, and in recent weeks he, in spite of his family troubles, had found it difficult to keep her out of his mind.

Her robes swished against his as they approached the end of the passageway. In the dim light he could see that she was half-smiling again, and he was just about to strike up conversation again when he froze, putting out a hand to stop her walking further.

"What?" she asked rather loudly.

He shushed her, and listened again. He was correct – he heard footsteps approaching them from around the corner. They were heavy steps that smacked against the stone floor, accompanied by the sound of robes dragging behind the walker, and light, wheezing breaths.

"Filch," he whispered, and as he said this the distant footsteps seemed to grow faster, louder, nearer...

James glanced around at the wall beside them – but it was devoid of doors. Desperately, he looked back at the corridor behind him. It was blank but for a lone portrait of a pale, elegant woman, whose slumbering face was drooped onto her large chest. With a flick of his wand it flew open, revealing a small, dark cavity. The moonlight that surged weakly through the windows flung the caretaker's shadow on the wall before them, but several feet away from them they saw clearly the skulking shape and large yellow eyes of his awful cat, Mrs Norris.

"What is it, my sweet?" the caretaker asked menacingly, and his words resounded against the walls like a bell.

Without further hesitation, Lily had grabbed his arm and they were racing towards the open portrait. They scrambled inside, and when James shut the picture behind them they were enveloped in darkness. They stayed still, James listening fervently over Lily's breathing for Filch's inevitable approach. His knowledge of the school passageways and tunnels had meant that any encounter of his with Filch had been rare, but each moment had made a firm imprint in his mind. Filch, for some reason, harboured a great dislike for all students, but most notably James and Sirius, perhaps because of their penchant in their early years for wreaking havoc with the latest joke-shop purchases. Though it had been a long time since those days, Filch constantly seemed on the lookout for them, hoping to punish them once more. Filch was a strong advocator of capital punishment, and whenever a student's penalty for rule-breaking was put in his control they usually returned to their dormitories with painful welts on their fingers or shins. Therefore, James was most annoyed that Filch had chosen to appear now, especially as he and Lily had been acting so civilly towards each other. Of course, only in his dreams had he imagined that he might be confined behind a portrait with her, but somehow, that Filch should be prowling outside had never entered his mind.

"If he discovers us," whispered Lily cautiously, "you know what it'll look like?"

"Well if he thinks that," James replied in a low voice, "I should be very flattered."

She elbowed him sharply in the ribs, and stifling his mirth, he was pushed towards the wall, but was cushioned by his bag.

"I just remembered something," he breathed, incredulous that he could be so stupid.

"What?" she asked, but James didn't answer. He was busily rooting through his bag, and reaching to the bottom of it seized something soft and crumpled.

"It's here!"

"What's h-"

But they had heard the clunk of a stick against the wall beside him, and she jumped. James threw the invisibility cloak over them just before the portrait opened, revealing the moonlit corridor and Filch's bulging eyes and disappointed frown.

"No-one's here, my sweet," Filch called down lovingly to the cat, which, James assumed, was padding up and down under the door. "It seems we are mistaken…" The caretaker swivelled his head around, his small nose twitching as though trying to sniff out any rule-breakers. Filch held his hand on the open portrait, but did not close it, and began to walk away, down the corridor to where the entrance to the secret stairwell was.

James exhaled, and heard Lily do the same.

"Nice cloak," she whispered.

"Thanks. It helps to get out of tricky situations, like when Filch is after you and you're trapped behind a portrait with a member of the opposite sex," he whispered back.

"It does."

"But watch out, the cat can still see us," he said quietly, and, making sure his feet were covered, lowered himself from the portrait-hole. He felt her invisible hand against his shoulder as she climbed down after him, and, ensuring they were still unseen by human eyes, began to walk towards the Gryffindor Tower again. James glanced back at Filch, who had stopped as his cat sniffed around the bottom of a statue. Under the cloak he saw that Lily was grinning at him.

"We'd better hurry up," he said in a low voice, "unless we want him chasing us again."

"It's not too bad, I suppose," she replied calmly.

"You think? Clearly you've never been caught by him, Evans."

"OH, SO YOU THINK YOU'LL GET AWAY FROM ME THIS TIME, DO YOU?" Filch roared, and they whirled around, James gripping the cloak before it slipped off, trying to come up with some sort of excuse.

But Filch was no-where near them. He was still at the other end of the corridor, screaming at another individual, who, it appeared, had just emerged from behind the statue…

"Sirius," James realised, and in a flash was out from under the cloak.

"What are you doing?" Lily hissed. "Get back under!"

But he shook his head, and darted down the corridor towards the caretaker, who was gripping Sirius' shoulder very tightly.

"Thought you could escape, didn't you?" Filch asked triumphantly, as Sirius stared at him blankly. "Philandering around, was it, with some girl?"

"Unfortunately not, no," said Sirius, apparently unfazed, but James knew that Sirius dreaded Filch's office, or "torture chamber" as it was more commonly known, as much as he did.

"A likely story!" Filch spat, and grasping his arm roughly turned to come face to face with James.

"And what's this, my sweet," he asked the cat, who looked back up at him, licking its lips. "It's two brats for the price of one tonight!" He reached out to get a firm grip on James as well, but James avoided his dirty fingernails as easily as he would a bludger.

"Why aren't you releasing him?" James asked, indicating to Sirius.

Filch seemed quite taken aback. "Because he's a vandalising vagrant," he replied through yellowing teeth. "Who needs the worst lashing my facilities can offer. Just like you, you -"

"Really? What have I vandalised recently?" he asked, ducking the caretaker's arm again. "Do we need a lashing? I'd say we need a cure. It seems for once, the caretaker isn't right, after all. What are your thoughts, Mr. Black?"

Sirius shook his head, sniggering.

"So we'll just be off, if that's all right with you."

"Merlin, it is NOT ALL RIGHT WITH ME!" He lunged at him again, and James allowed himself to be caught this time. Filch shook him roughly. "Wandering the corridors at one in the morning, thinking you own the place. Brats, the pair o' ye. BRATS!" His chest was heaving, and James could see the red veins in his eyes, and was forcibly reminded of Lucius.

"Filch, Filch," he tutted, half-laughing at himself. Don't you understand? We're on our way to the Hospital Wing – emergency, you know. I believe Sirius and I have contracted an awful illness – "Grumnet." Now see here –" He lifted up his sweater, revealing his muscular stomach, which was covered in purple boils. "Not very nice," he added, prodding one. Filch had released him, staring appalled at him. "It's also terribly contagious, which is why I suggested that you release Sirius, although it may be too late," he said, eyeing the caretaker's torso in a scrutinising fashion. Filch dropped Sirius' arm, and Sirius disguised a fit of laughter as a coughing fit, which, far from giving rise to suspicion, only added to the effect of James' lies.

Filch stepped back and stared at them as though as revolted by their appearance as they were of his.

"So we'll just be on our way then," said James.

"You expect me to believe that rubbish," Filch snarled suddenly, and started at them again.

He would have caught them, if there hadn't been a deafening crash as the end window behind him shattered, shards of glass raining down on the hard floor. Filch spun around.

"PEEVES!" he screamed, and promptly ran around the corner in pursuit of the poltergeist. But Mrs Norris was staring at an empty space just beside James, and he smiled, his heart beating faster as he realised who had helped them out.

"Come on, we're free to go," said Sirius happily, beginning to jog along the corridor, and James followed, accompanied, he knew, by a new sort of Marauder. "Fantastic lying, by the way – he was fit to kill you! But he's catching on way too quickly these days. Just as well Peeves saved the day, otherwise – I don't like to think of what he would have done."

"Good old Peeves," James replied, smiling at the space beside him.

"So why are you still down here?" Sirius asked.

"I got diverted, I guess."

"Did you go down to the pitch?"

"No," he said truthfully. "I should have, but didn't. How did the toad disembowelling go? Was Sluggy asking for me?"

"Ha! The toads were fine - they didn't complain."

"Good. Merlin, these boils itch horribly," he said, resisting the urge to scratch.

"Well, you'd better get rid of them if you want even half a chance with her," Sirius advised, and James felt the colour rise in his cheeks.

"What makes you think I'd want to keep them?" he asked curiously, quickening his pace before Sirius said too much.

"Not that I think she's shallow in any way," he continued, "but I think, for your own sake -"

"Yeah, yeah, for my own sake," he said, and stopped, lifting up his sweater again to perform the counter-jinx. The purple boils faded away, and James sighed with relief.

"There," said Sirius brightly, "I'm sure Lily Evans will fall for you without too much bother!"

James glared at him, and felt his face burn with embarassment. "Her loss if she doesn't," he claimed indifferently, his eyes avoiding the space where he was certain she was.

After several long, mortified minutes, they arrived in the Common Room. It was dark; the only light in the room came from the dying embers in the fireplace. It was empty of all other students, and it seemed the house-elves had not yet been - cards and magazines were scattered about the small, rickety tables. Sirius poked a rolled-up edition of the Prophet, and grimaced at the ominous headline and large photograph of a Dark Mark about blazing rooftops.

He then walked briskly towards the stairway to their dormitory. He looked back in surprise to see James, still standing in the centre of the room, looking at the newspaper.

"Are you planning to sleep down here?" he asked jokingly.

"No... I'll follow you in a minute."

"Suit yourself," he said, eyeing the newspaper with a sour expression.

Once he was certain Sirius was not within earshot, he raised his head from the newspaper.

"Still here, Evans?" he asked to the seemingly empty room. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to see her, but he needed his cloak back. True, he had made it no secret of his admiration of her last year, but now, things were different. He did not want the whole world to know his feelings, and though Sirius had had no notion that she had been present, he felt rather annoyed at him for mentioning it at all. He heard a rustling sound beside him as she appeared, and neatly rolled up the cloak before handing it to him.

"Thanks," she said politely, with no trace of having heard what Sirius had said, moments before.

"Any time," he replied casually, and actually meant it. "Just… don't tell anyone else about it, all right?"

"I promise. I've never seen one before – where did you get it?"

He looked down at the treasured item in his hand. "My dad gave it to me, a few years ago," he said steadily.

She nodded understandingly. James suddenly realised, that if anyone would understand how much he missed his father, she would. It was known throughout the school that her parents had died during the previous summer, in a Muggle accident. In spite of this, she never displayed any anger or sadness, and James wondered how she did it.

The dying fire cast a comforting glow on the room, and she smiled at him again.

"Well, thank you again for letting me use it, James." She walked away from him, to the door leading to her dormitory, but faltered. "Good night," she said, looking at him compassionately.

"Good night, Lily."

When she was gone, he sighed, pulling the cloak towards him. Slowly, he made his way up the dormitory stairs, past the sleeping forms of Remus and Peter, and into his bed, his mind filled with her voice, her eyes, and her smile...

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**Review it, please!**

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**Shahenshah786:** Thank you! Yeah, I know, beating up Snape is quite fun, but chapter 15 was in Minerva's POV, and I thought the office/punishment scenario was more interesting for her. Attacking Snape is quite a normal occurance for the Marauders, so I didn't want to make it like a big event, really. But don't worry, you will get to see it in future! 

**Crystal Kisses: **Wow! Thanks so much - I'm glad your in love with this story, and um, want to have little stories with it - that's ok; I love Scrubs! I read some of your fics - they're brilliant. I love the "stubborn" one. It's really original. L/J fics are the best!


	17. Celestial Maps and Inattention

Disclaimer: As said before, I believe.

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Centaurian Musings and the Often Oblivious Nature of Teenage Quidditch Captains**

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A warm night breeze swished through the swarms of leaves above him as Firenze moved silently over gnarled roots that snaked about the forest floor, his hooves smoothly stepping between thick, familiar trunks. He slowly approached the edge of the forest, where the trees became sparser, like friends that had drifted apart, and he lifted his nose, scenting the faint trail of smoke that drifted nightly from Hagrid's chimney.

Through small gaps in the dense foliage he could see the black sky, dotted with stars. But no star in the galaxy could compare to Mars now. The planet of war had been growing brighter with each passing year. The centaur saw it with every cautious upward glance, glowering and red; already soaked with the blood of countless slaughtered innocents. It was so bright that it disturbed his dreams, dreams of what he knew was to come. They made him shudder.

His kind took pride in knowing how to read the celestial maps, written by their ancestors, the great teachers of old. Firenze had known, as far back as he could remember, not to interfere with the path of fate, in spite of what he knew would come as a result of not doing so. He could recall, very clearly, Tom Riddle's wanderings through the forest in his schooldays, not very long before. Each time he passed Firenze had, hidden in the deep shadows, grasped his bow tightly, intent on firing an arrow into the boy's evil brain, knowing full well the devastation and fear that boy would grow up to infect the world with. But he had never followed through. The arrow had stayed, its head trembling between his fingers, and Firenze knew that the boy had to live, even if in life, he would amount to nothing more than a murderous tyrant.

The centaurs were, in spite of their general disregard for humankind, revolted by the Dark Lord and his followers. At Hogwarts, they were safe, but they all knew of other forests that had been flattened by the enslaved giants, whole habitats burned and charred to a crisp, creatures poisoned by potion fumes. Members of the wizard race had never really been trusted – with the exception of Hagrid, perhaps – but now it was obvious, even from the leafy confines of the forest, that the wizards did not trust themselves. The centaurs had isolated themselves from any fathomable "side" of the war, but Firenze knew that this was not just an assertion of independence; they deeply respected Dumbledore, but refused to get involved with human affairs of any sort.

So they had stayed put, deep in their forest, grimly reading the skies and recording their observations, writing poetry, and sharing little information with other creatures. It had lasted this way for a number of years, and there was never song or dance, as there had been in happier times. They gathered at the ancient standing stones to meet, to discuss the darkness they all knew was engulfing the outer world.

But in recent nights, there had been a change in the sky. It should have filled Firenze with great joy, but instead it evoked terrible sadness. They had stood for hours on the ancient standing stones, craning their heads back to see it, and they saw it approaching, so dim its outline was barely visible, yet they knew that it would one day grow to be as bright and fiery as Mars. There had been triumphant shouts, and laughter, but Firenze had stayed quiet. They all knew, as well as he did, that victory could only be achieved at a costly price. He had not made a sound as the heavy air pressed against his ears, as he gazed at the sign in the cloudless night sky, his breathing almost obstructed as he thought about what it could mean.

It was a challenge.

Firenze stopped, twigs snapping under his hooves. He had heard something far off, and tilted his head to listen. Another set of hooves, darting in and out of trees to his right. He wondered if Bane had followed him. The other centaurs had warned him not to get too close to the edge of the forest; they did not like him speaking to humans. The humans should not know what had been seen, it had been decided, and the rest of the centaurs already held their suspicions about Firenze, who they knew held Hagrid in high esteem, and had talked, on occasion, to some of the students. But Firenze had ascertained that he could not help that; there were four students in particular, friendly with Hagrid, who had taken to wandering the forest during the full moon.

Firenze had watched them: the wolf, the rat, the dog, and the deer, knowing the danger they were putting their fellows in, knowing the guilt the wolf could feel if he ever bit anyone, knowing the consequences of their transformations, and yet could never warn them. He did not tell even Hagrid about their pursuits - no-one was to know. Firenze had watched them from the shadows, just like he had watched Riddle years before, with his potentially fatal bow and arrow gripped tightly, pointed directly at the rat as it scurried about on the muddy ground, not yet aware of the treason he would commit against one of the people he currently held dearest.

And as before, he knew he could not do it. That would mean defying the stars, defying everything he believed in. It would mean defying the challenge, and he would not interfere.

He turned his head to the trees behind him, and a silhouette flashed out from their trunks. Sighing with relief, he realised, as he should have, that this was not a fellow centaur, but one of those students. The antlers shone in the moonlight as it galloped past him; it was the young stag. Firenze often thought – against the centaurian belief – that animagi ought to be admired, as they embraced the raw emotion and senses that humans generally tried to ignore, or oppress.

His eyes followed the galloping hooves as they disappeared into the shrubs, the quick rhythmic thump against the ferny floor resounding in his ears. Firenze remained beside the hollowed oak, knowing that the youth would shortly return to this small clearing. The other creatures had retreated into the depth of the forest, and the wood was quite silent. He moved to the left slightly, and through a thin break in the trees saw the school, looming down from a slight hill, its windows black, the humans slumbering.

The early summer air was sweet from the dew that rested on the green leaves. Firenze lifted his hand to the bark of the oak, his fingers respectfully examining it for any signs of ailment. Assured the tree was healthy, he raised his head to the sky once more, trying to search again for the shadow of a challenge that lay there.

The other set of hooves fell against the hard earth once more, and Firenze saw the student slow to a trot as he entered the small clearing. Firenze stiffened, unnoticed among the high boughs. The deer glanced around, and as the small clearing was sufficiently large enough a space for him to revert to his human appearance, transformed.

In the stag's stead stood a young man, known to Firenze from previous encounters in the forest. His robes were muddy from the floor, and he brushed them down quickly. When he glanced back up, he jumped slightly, before grinning.

"Fancy seeing you here," he said jokingly.

Firenze looked back, unsmiling.

"Hello," he replied simply, joining the youth as he walked. "May I ask what it is you are doing out so late?"

"Of course," James Potter said. "Flying, that's what."

This time Firenze did smile, but sadly. "You know I often think," he began quietly, "that you and I have a great deal in common."

The human looked him up and down, rather surprised. "I suppose," he said. "We both have hooves – if I choose to, that is – and," he laughed,"we both seem to like the sky…"

Firenze fell silent. Skyward had not, for a long time, been a pleasant direction to look. Recent change had given the other centaurs every reason to feel optimistic, but they did not care for the fate of the humans involved as that development came to pass. He was perhaps the only centaur who communicated more than rarely with humans, and though they could be bland at times, many he felt were undeserving of the vicious things in the skies had set in store for them. He glanced at the youth – tall, dark-haired and pale, and suddenly envied his oblivion.

He did not know the pain he would be subjected to, or the joy. He did not know his place in the universe, but Firenze did, and Firenze did not like to possess the knowledge that the trees around them would quite soon grow to outlive his walking companion.

"You look troubled," he said cheerily, waking Firenze from his thoughts.

"These are troubled times," he replied curtly, gently lifting a branch upwards so as not to break it as he trotted under it.

"Do you think they'll ever end?" the young man asked, his expression sly; he knew that the centaur could tell him the answer.

Firenze hesitated. "In time it will end," he said. "But before that can happen, Mars must grow brighter than ever before." The moon cast weak light at columned intervals through the trees.

The youth shook his head. "As long as it ends, Firenze," he said decisively, and the centaur said nothing.

He watched the boy's face, lost in thought. He had often heard his laughter among his friends cross the lake when it was calm, or had seen him run energetically across the lawn, joking with fellow students. Now, he seemed different, as though a few short months had aged him considerably. His eyes looked to the sky above them, not possibly knowing the tragic map the stars had unfolded for him.

Strangely, Firenze found this thought hard to bear. He dared not look at him any longer, for fear of interfering with fate, for fear of hindering the approach of the challenge. Yet he could not ignore the sadness that welled up inside him as he thought these things, nor could he look down on him, as other centaurs might. Instead, he found that his respect for him had mounted; deep respect that the youth perhaps did not presently deserve.

The centaur stopped at a fork in the path. James Potter stopped also.

"I must leave now, James," he told him, and the human looked back at him, his brow furrowed, curious as to why Firenze looked so mournful. He nodded, and raised his hand.

"All right," he said. "I'll see you some other time then."

"Don't fly too close to the sun," the centaur said quietly, knowing that James would not understand the full extent of his words.

"Don't worry, Firenze," he laughed, as he began to walk away. "I won't."

The other centaurs never wanted to tell Firenze anything, for fear that he might divulge an important celestial secret to a human. But Firenze was not daft. As much as it pained him to do so, he had broken no rule in speaking to James. Humans were generally thought to be, as individuals, as insignificant to the earth as a shadow flickering over the half-moon, but some, like James, and Tom Riddle before him, and others that would follow, were not. As he watched his retreating back, walking with a light step along the twisting path ahead of him, lined by slanting trees and sleeping flowers, he wished him luck, and hoped, as he did many times, that some areas of the sky had been read falsely.

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Minerva had not been issuing as much homework as usual, as the students could use their extra spare time to their advantage by studying their transfiguration methods. Even so, she did not relent from challenging their abilities during her lessons, and as she crossed the classroom to her desk, a hush falling as the students took their seats, she ran through the lesson plan in her mind.

She was happy with the students' work that term, and hoped it would reflect in their exam results – not for her sake, but for their own. It was senseless, she thought, for students to be in front of her for years and gaining nothing for themselves. Her spell book opened smoothly to one of the last pages, and after a quick glance at it went to the blackboard, conjuring a chalk diagram there. As usual, the heads before her bent to their desks, taking down what she showed them.

She had never found revision work difficult to do with her students, though undoubtedly they were bored of it, and often threw longing looks in the direction of the windows, which framed the bottle-blue sky and bright grass, marking quite a contrast to the fading pages of their textbooks. But in a few weeks, they would be free of coursework and able to enjoy the grounds. Minerva did not feel guilty for keeping them such a short time longer.

But today, the atmosphere was charged, and even she found it difficult to concentrate. It was Friday, and the Quidditch Cup Final would take place the following afternoon. Gryffindor would play Slytherin – their premier rival for the past year. The captains of each team were of course the centre of attention, and scuffles between houses had been too regular in the past week, but thankfully James Potter had not been involved. He was serving enough time in detention as it was, and had he stepped out of line once more she was afraid she would have had to follow through with her threat of pulling him from the team.

She did not like to think of the smug look on Horace Slughorn's face if his house won, but she had faith in James' talent. His first four years on the team had been committed to successful Seeking, but at the beginning of his sixth year he appeared to have grown tired of that position, switching to Chaser. Horace had dismissed this as an arrogant move, a quest for further glory, especially as James' scoring prowess had since broken several records. But Minerva found herself angrily disagreeing with Horace, as she did on many counts. If Horace was jealous of her team, he would have to find a star player of his own.

Minerva could not help but feel slightly unnerved, however, when she realised how tired James looked as she dictated notes to the class. His usual enthusiasm was absent, and now and again he raised his hand to his mouth, covering a yawn, and leaned against the wall beside him as if he could sleep against it. She hoped this apparent fatigue would not affect his performance at the match, and realised with some degree of frustration that many other students were being equally inattentive.

"The transformation of a piece of enamel to a pigeon is not a complex spell in itself," she continued, in a slightly louder voice, "but rather becomes so when influenced by external forces…"

Sirius looked straight at the board, lost in his own musings. Behind him Remus was one of the few students paying her attention; he was alert, taking his notes quickly and precisely. Peter, too, but to a lesser extent, his attention often distracted by the sunnier world outside. She saw eyes of her students flit furtively to the clock above the door, and back again, and the sound of quills against the parchment filled the air.

"Emeric Switch states, that failure occurs when a wizard visualises the outcome, and not the development, of a transfiguration. It is important to note that when under threat, the wizard may not become what it is that they initially intended, but the object they have turned into will be much more suited for protection. It may thus be argued that the magical process of Transfiguration is an instinctive one, unlike Potions, for example, which is arguably formulaic."

She stopped, surveying the class. Douglas Hill was tapping his feet against the floor, listening to music that only he heard. Samuel Macmillan was reading over what he had taken down, fidgeting with his tie. Gordon Bones stared at the ceiling, his eyes appearing to count the number of candles on the candelabra. Greta Catchlove sat still, with her legs crossed and chewing the top of her quill, unaware that black ink was staining her mouth. Beside her, Sadhbh Coolidge stared longingly out the window in the direction of the stadium; like James, she played Chaser on the Gryffindor team, but unlike her fellow player had managed to avoid being subject to Horace's criticism.

Lily Evans had abandoned writing altogether, and had also fixed her attentions on the window, but appeared more interested in who was beside it rather than outside. James Potter seemed totally unaware that he was under her scrutiny, and had reverted to doodling snitches on his parchment. Her eyes were narrowed, as though concentrating on something quite important to her, and her chin was rested in her hand, which gave Minerva the impression that she had been looking at him for a long time.

The inattention of her students had not dampened her spirit, but Minerva had to admit that they currently seemed incapable of absorbing information that had nothing to do with imminent sporting events or their own social lives. She decided that they had proceeded far enough that week to dismiss the last ten minutes.

Her class was pleasantly surprised to hear this, and immediately broke into chatter as she sat down at her desk, preparing for her next class of timid first years. Now and then she looked up at them, waiting for the bell to ring. James and Sirius were cracking jokes with Peter and Remus as usual, and a small group of Hufflepuff girls was vying for their attention. At the back of the room, Minerva could see Lily Evans speaking animatedly with her friends, but now and then she would glance over at James.

A warm sun shone through the glass panes, and Minerva realised that this was the atmosphere of many classrooms in her experience, including her own schooldays, and that these young people were capable of blocking the war from their minds and getting on with their own lives, however trivial they might seem.

The bell rang with a dense, clanging noise, and the students got up and began to file out of the room, accompanied by the scraping of chairs against the tiled floor. Minerva moved to the door also, watching students pass by, their bags slung over their shoulders.

"Coolidge – and ah, Potter," she said quickly, as they neared her. "As usual I excuse you both from coursework," pausing to see them grin triumphantly, "And as usual," she continued, in lower tones, "I would rather you win – I simply can't bear the thought of the Cup being sent to the dungeons!"

"It won't be Professor," assured Sadhbh confidently, pushing her long curly hair over her shoulder. "Anyway, in the highly unlikely event of that happening, Jim will steal it back for us, won't you?"

"Of course not, because I'll be dead before that happens!" James retorted jovially.

Minerva laughed with Sadhbh as other students filed by, and with quick nods they turned to leave, James standing back to let Lily Evans out before him. Minerva could have sworn she saw her blush as she walked out into the corridor, quickly joined by Sadhbh and several others. The usual suspects stood waiting for James at the doorway, and they left at a slower pace, their laughter echoing down the corridor, and Minerva could hear their excitement for the next day mount from where she stood in the now empty classroom.

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**Ok, that's chapter what, 17? Yep, 17. So that was my introduction to Firenze - I hope you liked him. It was quite interesting to put Firenze**** and Minerva in the same chapter, because he sets so much store by fate, and she's so rational. Anyway, I hope you readers liked this chapter - the next chapter will be the Quidditch Cup Final, and I look forward to writing it.**

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**I'll Open Your Book: **Wow! Thank you for all your lovely adjectives - it was very encouraging! I haven't really been getting many reviews on this site but your ones really upped the numbers! I'm glad to hear you're enjoying it, and hope you liked this chapter - which I know is a bit shorter than last, but I haven't had a huge amount of time to write.

**Jamaloo:** Thanks for your great reviews! It's brilliant to hear what readers think, and I like that you're enjoying it - so uh, no sock-throwing, fortunately! I suppose Lily acted nicely to him for a number of reasons: firstly, it's almost a year after the whole Snape's-worst-memory debacle, so I assume both would have matured since then. Also, in the canon Lily is said to have been a genuinly nice person, and his father died recently, so I'd hardly make her mean! But I know what you're saying - lots of fics make them really snappy towards each other, so maybe this one's a bit different. Thanks once again for all the praise - and I hope you like this update!

**Bridgit: **Thank you so much for your thoughtful reviews - they're so encouraging! It is actually quite interesting to get into the minds of different people by writing them - and I think personally it makes it easier to develop their characters. If I just stuck with James the whole time I think it would be hard to describe the danger of the world (at this stage of his life, anyway), and changing perspective to someone else - like McGonagal, for example, gives his character space to breath. That's how I see it! I hope you continue to enjoy Red.

**Equinimity:** Thanks a million for your lovely review! I'm glad you enjoyed that last chapter - I'm particularly proud of it! Hope you continue to enjoy it!

**DreamlikeCheese:** Thank you for your lovely review - I agree, I think sometimes L/J fics are fun, but they don't deal with a war climate. Glad you like my take on it, so here's the update! (cool name, by the way.)


	18. The Final Festivities, Part 1

Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling.

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**The Final Festivities, Part 1: The Brief Calm**

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The Hogwarts staff room was a long, panelled one, accessible through a large oak door off the entrance hall. There was a single narrow window which looked out onto the sloping lawns and broad lake, flanked on either side by thick scarlet curtains. In the opposite wall there was a reasonably sized fireplace, suited to the faculty's communication and transport needs. Several ornate tapestries added colour to the dark panels, and below them usually stood a row of mismatched wooden chairs. These, at meeting times were summoned to the centre of the room, to surround a conjured wooden conference table.

This evening, however, the table was nowhere to be seen, as the faculty had met in the staff room not to discuss matters of education, but to celebrate the outcome of the Quidditch Cup Final. The darkness that revelled beyond the castle walls caused little call for parties, and it was Albus Dumbledore's reasoning therefore that the students' sporting victories could be embraced as a reason to have one. The Final was, after all, only an annual occasion, and Albus had always enjoyed the sport immensely, as did most of his colleagues.

This was the cause, Minerva believed, for Horace Slughorn's current glum mood. On entering he had sat, somewhat dejectedly, into his chair by the fireplace – which he had flickered to life in spite of the warm summer air. His green and silver scarf was still tied loosely around his neck, and beneath it was a green rosette, pinned firmly to his silk pinstriped robes.

"My commiserations, Horace," Albus chuckled, filling the small glass in Horace's fist with brandy.

"I know you don't mean it, old boy," Horace said with a smile. "Though it's quite all right; I have become very accustomed to defeat in this area of my work, much to my displeasure!"

Albus sat down on the spindly wooden chair beside him, stretching out his long, booted legs before him with a contented sigh. Horace settled himself back further into his armchair – something he often summoned from his office when he felt the need for comfort. Minerva drew a chair from the wall to sit adjacent to Albus, her heart still pumping with adrenaline from the match an hour before.

"But I cannot fathom why, Albus," continued Horace, his eyes flickering up from his glass as he addressed him, "we must proceed to make such a tremendous deal of the occasion. With Potter on the Gryffindor side," he added, casting Minerva a resentful look, "the only reason I can think of that would inspire you to hold the event at all, is some hidden wish to humiliate me and my house every June!"

Horace turned his head defiantly from the window, where the bright explosions of fireworks were visible in the dark night sky, undoubtedly being let off by victorious Gryffindor students, celebrating by the lakeside.

"You know perfectly well why," said Albus, his eyes twinkling as he looked out on the red and gold sparks raining down on the vast expanse of water. "These times give us very little reason for celebration. Our students will leave shortly, and I consider it my responsibility to give them a chance to experience at least some of the light-hearted fun we both had while we were here. It is only fair that the students make the most of their victory."

"_Gryffindor_ students," Horace said huffily, watching his drink swirl around in the glass while Albus laughed. "And that new Seeker – that _Stone_ – it seems as if Potter has been moulding him into his own image –"

"Which includes the successful capture of the Snitch," Minerva quipped, smiling broadly.

She had perhaps done enough gloating on the way up to the school from the stadium, but she could not help showing her immense pride for her team's performance that day. As had been expected, James Potter had captained brilliantly – he and his fellow team mates Sadhbh Coolidge, Chameli Lal, Barry Ryan, Theodore Gardiner and Malcolm MacClaggen, and of course the Seeker, Rory Stone, had played flawlessly, resulting in the Cup remaining in her office for at least another year. Minerva and Horace had, as the Heads of each house, commentated, and Horace, decked in his Slytherin garb, had not kept quiet his resentment for her side during the match.

Gryffindor chants and songs from the crowd resounded in her head as she took a handful of sweets from the gold dish Albus was offering her.

"What are these?" Horace asked curiously, his bitterness about the Gryffindor victory momentarily dissolved at the prospect of something sugary.

"Liquorice Allsorts," Albus replied, handing the dish of coloured sweets to the Potions Professor. Frowning slightly, Horace took one, tentatively biting into it. After a moments thought, he passed the dish back to the Headmaster, who smiled, taking several for himself, before offering the dish to Filius Flitwick, who was deep in conversation with Rebekah Scotch, undoubtedly about the match.

"I'm sorry Albus," Horace began, shaking his head. "But those are revolting. I honestly don't know how you can put up with Muggle confectionary. These, on the other hand," he said, reaching up onto the mantelpiece and bringing down a silver tray of crystallized pineapple, "hit the spot, in my opinion."

"Well, our opinions differ in a number of areas," said Albus pleasantly, declining his offer with a grin and a slight shake of his head. Horace placed the gleaming tray on his lap, and after a moment popped one into his mouth, before returning it to the mantlepiece.

Opposite him Professor Binns, who occupied the seat directly by the fire without fail every evening, grunted suddenly in his sleep. His misty face was tilted upwards, his large mouth wide open, and his long ghostly arms dangled limply from his old chair, almost brushing the carpeted floor with their fingertips. The History of Magic Professor's mind was more often than not steeped entirely in his subject, and though he possessed a brilliant mind, it was rare that he could relate to any occurrence since the 1839 Goblin Rebellion of Tresterwick – a subject he was passionate about. He remained deaf to the chatter around him and to the sounds of the aged gramophone in the corner, and it would have shocked the living daylights out of every one of his colleagues if it transpired that Binns knew which team had won the match, let alone which sport had been played.

"The end of another school year," Horace sighed, eyeing Binns, who had retreated into his rythmical pattern of snoring once more. "Merlin, I'm getting old."

Albus appeared not to have heard Horace's subtle request for attention. Horace liked to joke at the end of every year that he would retire. It was true that he often complained about the brutish behaviour of some students and the endless pressure of teaching, but she knew that there was nowhere he would rather be. Many of her colleagues felt similarly. Hogwarts was the safest place in the world at this time; You Know Who himself was said to fear Albus. Though currently the headmaster, reclining calmly on his chair with a bowl of Muggle sweets on his knees, cheerily exchanging jokes with Scotch and Flitwick, could hardly be described as a threat to the most ferocious Dark Wizard of all time, Minerva had witnessed his cold fury, and knew that to trifle with Albus Dumbledore was to question one's sanity.

No member of the faculty had young children, and the few teachers who had spouses left the school every evening. Thus, for the majority of the staff, Hogwarts was home, and for Minerva it was populated not just by her colleagues, but by some very close friends.

She had known Albus for a very long time; he had been the Transfiguration Professor in her schooldays, and soon after her graduation, when he became headmaster, he had offered her a place as his successor. It was almost twenty years since then, and much in their world had changed, but though Albus was regarded by the Ministry as liberal in his outlook, and had made several alterations as he saw fit, he had been reluctant to allow the unpleasant happenings outside the Hogwarts grounds to influence the activities at school.

In recent years enormous and often visible strain had been put on him as he fought the growing support of the Dark Wizard, and he had divulged little information about what his intentions were. He rarely told Minerva of his plans, which at times she found frustrating, but presumed there was good reason for it.

Right now, she could see he was content, and was happy for him. Horace too, she observed, in spite of his objections, appeared glad that Albus was relaxing, avoiding talk of war, and had lit his pipe, tapping the fingers of his empty hand against the side of his chair, in time to the chamber music that emitted from Filius Flitwick's gramophone.

"Yes. The end of another school year," Horace repeated, though this time to himself rather than anyone else. Suddenly, his expression growing happier, and placing his empty brandy glass on the table with a light clink, he said brightly, "Do you remember, Albus, what we did that one year, on the day we got our summer holidays?"

The headmaster threw his head back and laughed jovially.

"Will I ever forget!"

"And it was _your_ idea, remember?" continued Horace, taking up his wand to refill the glass. "It was at the end of June, after… our sixth year," he said to Filius, who was looking at him inquisitively. "Albus and I - what age were we, Albus?"

"Sixteen," the headmaster said confidently, and then shook his head. "No, no. We were seventeen. You had just turned seventeen."

"That's right – seventeen. We had arrived in Hogsmeade, ready to board the train to go home like all the other students, and Albus turned to me and said that he was tired of trains." Satisfied that his glass was adequately full, he raised it to Dumbledore, who raised his own in return.

"And what did you do?" Rebekah Scotch asked, sitting into a chair beside Minerva.

Tilting the glass towards his mouth, Horace twitched his eyebrows to the small group looking at him.

"We went to Norway instead."

" Norway?" Minerva asked incredulously, her eyes widening at the thought of Albus impulsively deciding to go northward at the age of seventeen.

" Norway," Horace repeated as he stood up, his large rear facing them as he reached for more of his crystallized pineapple.

"Horace is correct," Albus explained. "I had grown very tired of trains, and I was interested in Muggle boats in particular."

"Hence, Norway," Horace said, with a flourish of his silver tray.

"But I still don't quite comprehend –"

"That's perfectly all right my dear Filius," Horace told the Charms Professor, whose brow was furrowed. "Few people understand our Albus!"

"What he means, Filius," said Dumbledore, glancing at Horace, "is that we flew to the nearest harbour and took a boat to Norway. It was a fascinating trip."

"The vessel was, in fact, only comparable to a floating tub," said Horace with a dark look. "Most unpleasant, as you can imagine. And the deck was slippery with the blood of gutted fish, and the sea air was painfully cold – but Albus wanted to pretend that we were Muggle, so magic was strictly forbidden. Not that I _wanted_ to go to Azkaban, mind, but it was –"

"A truly fascinating trip." the headmaster concluded once more.

"What in Hades did you do once you got there?" Minerva asked. In all of her time at Hogwarts, she had never once heard them discuss this particular voyage.

"I don't remember," said Horace sorrowfully. "And I cannot be certain whether that is fortunate or unfortunate for us!"

"I recall seeing a play in Oslo," said Albus, "but that may have been years after. I really should have written these things down. All I know is that Horace simply refused to return by boat, so we flew back instead."

"Are you not terrified of flying, Horace?" Filius asked, raising a knowing eyebrow.

"Of course I am, dear fellow! I derive absolutely no pleasure from it, and even in my youth was rather wobbly – a physical trait I doubt even the finest broom could withstand for too long – but neither can I admit to being comfortable in the company of two toothless Muggles and hundreds of fish heads. It was a tough decision, but I dare say it was the right one to make!"

Rebekah pushed the grey hair away from her face in a bewildered fashion as the group fell silent. It was obvious to the teachers that the Gryffindor revelries had gotten into full swing, for the room – which had darkened as the candles had shortened – was from time to time illuminated by flashes of red light which issued through the window panes. Minerva could see Horace's fingers twitch, as if he wished to close the curtains fully, thereby blocking out any visual reminders of his defeat. He did not rise, however, but his irritation was apparent once more.

"Did the Gryffindor team have to go so far as to wear _war paint_? Now really Minerva, I think that was a bit too much."

"Ah yes. Quite a creative touch," Rebekah mused, her finger on her chin. "Who thought of it?"

"Guess," said Horace, his mouth twisted into a deep frown.

"James Potter!" she exclaimed with a laugh. "He's a right high flier. Wherever did we get him!"

"I don't know, Rebekah," Minerva said lightly. "But I think we can be assured that he is doing his best to leave his mark on Hogwarts."

"In more ways than one," Horace said angrily. "The graffiti of his I had to get Filch to remove from my desks in the Potion Room – good riddance I say!"

"Now Horace," Rebekah said in a friendly manner, "I don't have time for sore losers. Either play the game or get off the pitch."

"Get off the pitch?" Horace asked, draining the last of his second brandy. "I'll stay right where I am, thank you very much! And I'll take another one of those liquorice things, Albus – I feel I should learn to enjoy nasty food."

"I won't contest to that," said Albus, winking at Minerva as he passed Horace the golden dish. Horace took one out and popped it into his mouth, this time displaying no sign of disgust.

Minerva sat back. She rarely was in the mood to relax, but now, with Horace dozing drunkenly in his armchair, and Albus serenely smoking his pipe beside him, there was an air of peace in the long staff room that was usually absent. Binns slept silently now – only the bustle of their leaving would wake him, and tonight there had been no interruption from the fireplace to tell them of some catastrophic event. For the first time in what felt like years, she found herself at ease, simply watching Pomona Sprout dancing awkwardly with small Filius by the scratchy gramophone in the corner, or listening to young Poppy Pomfrey's conversation with Rebekah about Quidditch injuries.

Franz Gudgeon sat quietly by the scarlet curtain, looking out at the display Potter and his friends were painting in the night sky. She too gazed at it, and as each flash of red brightened the dark oak panelling, she was told of the glorious Gryffindor victory. Albus had said that the students should have some light-hearted fun, a chance to escape the thoughts of violence and dread which they experienced each day. She realised then, as she watched the sparks shimmer through the darkness, that during that brief period of blissful tranquillity, he had succeeded in freeing the staff from the war too.

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**So that was 18! I hope people aren't too disappointed that there's no actual Quidditch match here - they're very hard to write! Anyway, Part 2 will take us to the lakeside, where the Gryffindors are celebrating. I sincerely hope it doesn't take long to write!

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**I'll Open Your Book: **Thank you - never mind the adjectives, as long as you enjoyed it that's great!

**DreamlikeCheese: **Thanks for the lovely review! I thought Firenze was an interesting addition, as he, like us, knows what the future holds for James. Glad you liked it, though I know not a lot happened there - and not a lot happened here either, but the next chapter will be much more eventful, I promise.

**Sabhaircin: **Hey - your name means primrose, doesn't it? I love the name Sadhbh too, that's why I used it. I was a bit reluctant to use it at first, as I didn't know if any reader would recognise it, especially as it's spelt this way. After all, it looks a bit strange if read using English phoenetics! Glad you also love the story - hope you enjoyed this chapter! Now I wish I had called myself Rac-Phiseóg. Drat.

**RuffledFeathers: **Thank you! It's great to hear your feedback, as I know it is quite unlike many other L/J fics, so I like knowing what people think. And yeah, for the length of it, the amount of reviews is sort of small, but I don't mind! The ones I have gotten have been very encouraging - including yours. Thanks again!

**Equinimity: **Thank you so much for such an amazing review - you're so cool! I'm really happy you're enjoying it so much, and hope you liked this chapter. I do tend to focus on the peripheral characters I suppose, but there are a lot of them in the HP books, and many are very interesting, but still remain on the edge of things. It also gives me more freedom to write what I want, so I guess that's why Minerva and Firenze are here! They also help with the storytelling, I think.

**Jay: **Thank you! That was so encouraging to read - I'm really happy to hear you like my writing and story, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed this update!

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**Oh, and for anyone who doesn't know how the name "Sadhbh" should be pronounced, it's like the number five, but with an "s" instead of an "f". ****

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Please review before you leave - I want to know what you think.

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	19. The Final Festivities, Part 2: Fireworks

Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling

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Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Final Festivities, Part Two: Fireworks**

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Murky water lapped against Sirius Black's heels as he knelt down, the damp twigs of the lakeshore crunching beneath his knees. There, he poised his soaked wand above the wick of an impatient Filibuster, and turned to grin at the crowd around him as they collectively inhaled in anticipation. Then, backing lightly away into the large circle of students that surrounded the stack of compressed explosives, he rubbed his hands gleefully, watching the firework begin to fizzle.

"Filibusters never disappoint," he told his best friend happily. "Just like you, mate."

James laughed. "Thanks. And I'll hold you to that remark, Padfoot."

The Filibuster gave a sudden jolt and spluttered golden sparks, before zooming upward with a whirl of red to the sound of loud cheering from the crowd. With a severe right turn it sped across the lake, where for a moment it paused, frozen in time, before bursting into an array of red and gold flecks in the black night sky. These sparks tumbled downward, expanding like a glorious hand stretching itself out to catch an enormous, invisible snitch.

James grinned as he watched, and felt the warm, tingling manifestation of a recent Firewhiskey in his chest, accompanied by a pleasant drowsiness which pacified the pumping adrenaline that had rushed through him since winning the match.

Somewhere in the distance he heard Peter's raucous laughter among the excited, victorious throng of people, and felt Sirius clap his arm around his shoulder as they manoeuvred their way through a crowd of giggling third years, Sirius stumbling slightly.

"I'm free," Sirius chuckled, turning to shake his head in disbelief and raising a bottle to the blazing sky. James had never seen him happier, yet he looked down, flicking a piece of dried mud off the front of his scarlet Quidditch robes with his finger, in the hope that Sirius would not see his sudden glum expression.

"Poor Alphard," his best friend continued, looking at the dark grass and steadying himself, his hair falling into his eyes as he steeped his right hand into his pocket, the bottle hanging from his left. He grinned, gazing at the sky again, his face bathed in a flash of red from the Filibuster above them. "I think I'll miss him."

James said nothing. He knew that the cause for his friend's euphoric mood had little to do with the bottle of mead he had just devoured, or even the Gryffindor Quidditch victory.

Early that morning James had, of course, been in the Gryffindor changing room, preparing his team for the final. Sirius was always welcome there, but he had not expected an interruption from him at that time of the day, and had been surprised by Sirius' appearance at the old steel door. He had looked out of breath, as though he had run all the way from the castle without stopping, and wasted no time before telling him, half-cheerily, that his uncle Alphard was dead.

He had pushed Sirius' words from his mind as he walked out onto the Quidditch pitch to loud applause – and booing from the Slytherin side – but now, he felt that he had little to captivate his attention in the same way a Quidditch Final did.

From his pocket Sirius pulled out a small, rectangular cardboard packet, and flicked it open with his thumb. Both young men began to walk up the sloping lawn to another group, away from the lakeside fireworks and Peter's jokes. Sirius placed a cigarette in his mouth, winking at a blonde girl who had smiled at him as they passed. He offered the packet to James, but he declined.

"Why, who do you have lined up for tonight?" Sirius asked. "I know you don't like the idea of tasting like an ashtray…"

It had been common practice in their earlier post-match parties that James would snog at least one girl in celebration of his victory (and in such cases commitment was rarely an issue), but James felt that he had moved on from those immature evenings. Besides, in spite of the hopeful smiles that he had received from a variety of female faces on the lawn that night, he felt no inclination to near any one of them with his.

"No-one," he replied.

"Lily Evans is a "someone," not a no-one, James," said Sirius, as a teacher would correct a dim-witted student.

"Is she here?" he asked hopefully, realising that he had not seen her.

"Of course! Why wouldn't she be?" Sirius exclaimed, quickening his pace and gesturing to the large group of older years. "Sitting near Remus, I believe, by that fire we conjured up earlier"

"Oh."

"Oh?" Sirius repeated quizzically, a curious expression forming on his face. "Full steam ahead then, or do you have other plans?"

"Sirius," James said exasperatedly, vaguely accepting a bottle of mead that was pressed at him as they passed through a crowd of female fourth years. "I think she explained herself coherently enough some time last year –"

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," Sirius interrupted warningly, looking at the mead in James' hand. "Fourth year girls, love potions, Quidditch Captains… it could get messy."

"Yeah," said James, turning his head to look at the group of giggling girls, and back at the bottle in his hand. "We shouldn't let it go to waste though…"

"Who do you have in mind?" queried Sirius.

"Philip York," James replied immediately.

"I have no idea who he is."

"He's the most idiotic fourth year I have ever encountered," he explained as they walked on. "I heard him telling his friends last week that I hadn't selected him for the team this year because Lily Evans fancied him."

"So you're jealous."

"Ha!" James laughed derisively. "She's two years older than him, and he looks like a stretched goblin – not bloody likely."

"Why didn't you hex him then?" asked Sirius curiously.

"With the threats McGonagall made? I'm not insane!"

"Fair point," Sirius declared, turning left to go to the tall oak tree.

"And he's a rubbish flyer," James continued. "I wouldn't care if he looked like Alguff the Awful if he could fly well – but he flies like an intoxicated Acromantula – limbs flailing everywhere – and that was long before I had even contemplated hexing him."

"You should have let him fly!" cried Sirius with a bark of laughter, James following him to the base of the oak, where, among the tangled roots and flowers, Sirius had placed a large crate. "It would have been highly entertaining for all concerned."

James nodded, his mood lightening at the thought. Sirius bent down, and with a swift glance around him to detect eavesdroppers, whispered the password, the lid of the crate lifting off easily. It contained all the alcoholic beverages that could be obtained from Rosemerta without staff knowledge, but it remained out of bounds for the younger years, more out of the older years' feeling of entitlement than a wish to protect them from drunkenness.

"So do you agree that York deserves a slobbery, desperate fourth year?" James asked, as he stood, looking over the slope of lawn at the group of chattering girls.

"Most definitely," said his best friend, rummaging for several moments before finally extracting several cold bottles of mead. "Here," he said, throwing him one, which James caught in his left fist without even thinking.

"Is it safe?" he joked, pretending to examine the label.

"Yep," said Sirius cheerily. "Unless Rosemerta's been toying with them, that is, but I doubt it."

James smirked as he opened the bottle, holding it away from him as the white foam spilled over the brim, soaking his fingers and falling onto the grass. "I wouldn't put it past her. Don't know what she sees in you, mind –"

Sirius heaved exaggeratedly, his arms hugging an assortment of drinks into his chest as he sauntered past, but he grinned, tilting his head towards the group ahead of them.

"Come on, Prongs. Evans won't wait forever."

James sighed. "Look, just to prove my point, I'll take you up on your earlier offer," he said, pointing at the shortening cigarette in Sirius' mouth.

Sirius gave a sly laugh, the bottles clinking as he walked. "No way, Prongs. It's detrimental to your health, and she won't like the taste of it.

James shook his head, pushing his hand irritably through his hair as he reluctantly followed Sirius into the gathering of his fellow students.

They were clustered around the large fire that he and Sirius had conjured hours earlier, and as they approached it James could feel its heat against his face. Here and there he saw groups sitting and chatting, while others talked animatedly, re-enacting incidents of the match. The fireworks were far more recurrent now, and every few moments these people before them were illuminated with red and gold rushes of light.

James was greeted with loud cheering and quips as they entered the throng, and his peers quickly burst into an enthusiastic rendition of a song he had heard from the stands that day, Sirius joining in loudly in front of him. The students sitting on the ground smacked the palm of James' hand with theirs in elation as he passed, and when Sirius handed out the bottles of mead he was met with similar fervour.

He spotted Remus at the opposite side of the gathering, sitting with his legs crossed in the long grass beneath a familiar old beech tree. When James reached it he promptly sat down in the empty space beside him, watching Sirius offering a bottle of mead to a pretty fifth year.

"He's in high spirits tonight," Remus chuckled.

James nodded, taking a sip of mead. "In more ways than one, I'd say."

"Well, he has as good a reason to celebrate as you do," Remus mused, picking a leaf up from the ground and tearing it into two green halves.

"Probably better."

"I had no idea what had gotten into him this morning," Remus began, settling back against the worn trunk. "When the owls flew in over breakfast, he caught a letter, ripped open the envelope and he just... stared at it. Worm and I asked him what it was, naturally, but he just got up and sprinted out of the hall to find you."

James grinned, lying back into the grass to stare up at the celebrating scarlet sky.

"He interrupted my pep talk," he recounted. "It was beginning to gain momentum when Sirius burst in to tell me, and I had just been about to tell Chameli Lal to watch the tail wind on her broom."

He sat up suddenly, seeing the third year Chaser, who had turned from her cluster of friends at the sound of her name. "You did brilliantly anyway Lal," he called sincerely, and she smiled and waved, her own Quidditch robes spattered with the mud of the stadium.

"And then," James continued, turning to look at Remus' amused face, "He announced to the whole team that Alphard was dead."

"I'm sure they appreciated that," Remus replied, watching a stream of Filibusters whirl through the night.

"After a minute I realised why he looked so delighted, – I mean – he didn't seem very sad or anything, even though he always said that Alphard was his favourite uncle."

"Did you ever meet him?" Remus asked curiously, dropping the torn leaf pieces to the ground.

"Only once," James said, staring at the unopened mead bottle he had placed upright, between the roots of the beech. "Last summer. He clearly wasn't in great shape, even then. He was a bit too fond of finding reasons to celebrate, I think. Cracked jokes all the time, though."

The leaves above them swayed softly as he remembered the ruddy faced, decrepit man he had seen. Remus nodded, reaching for the bottle beside him.

"Don't touch that!" James said suddenly, grabbing it from friend's grasp, which instantly released it.

"Why?" Remus asked, sounding both surprised rather hurt.

James sat up straighter, putting it away from him and out of his friend's reach. "It's been spiked."

Realisation dawned on Remus' pale face, and he grinned. "One step ahead of the fourth year girls, I see."

"Well I have to be, don't I?" He said, looking across at Sirius and raising his hand expectantly, and Sirius, resurfacing from his endeavours with the fifth year girl, smiled and immediately flung an unopened bottle towards him, which James caught effortlessly.

"Have this," he said, handing it to Remus.

"Thanks, Prongs," he said, and the drink hissed as he opened it.

James sank back into the comfortable grass again, and between the thick branches of the beech tree he returned his gaze to the fiery sky.

"So with the money Alphard left him," he heard Remus discern through sips of mead, "Sirius is free from his parents."

"He said he wants to get his own place, as far away from them as possible." James said, rolling over onto his side and deriving as much comfort as he possibly could from the ground. "I mean, that'll be great," he continued, "but I liked having him at my house."

Though James was confident that he had kept the sadness out of his voice, he knew that Remus had a penchant for detecting the moods that he usually intended to hide from others.

"I suppose everything is different now," James continued lightly, swirling the bottle about in his hand. He looked up at the reddened stars, trying desperately to regain the happiness he had felt only moments before.

Before Hogwarts, he and Sirius had not known each other. Perhaps, had James lived in London all his life, they would have become acquainted at an earlier stage, but before the war, Godric's Hollow had been James' home.

There, and throughout his childhood, he had been allowed more freedom by his aging parents than perhaps he deserved, and given whatever he wished for. Back then, he had been free to roam the expansive grounds of their cottage on the edge of the village, content with the companionship of the winged horses.

It had never been lonely, but his was a childhood that had been surrounded by those much older than him – his parents, occasionally his uncle, and in the earlier years a kindly nanny – but rarely children of his own age. He did not recall experiencing bouts of longing for a sibling, but he had always thought it would be nice to have someone to share his discoveries with.

When he came to Hogwarts and met Sirius, it was as if they had always known each other. He had been quick to learn how much Sirius disliked his family of Slytherins, and his residence at Grimmauld Place. He had heard stories of how mean his mother was to him, how indifferent his father was, and how trapped he felt in his myriads of conservative and bland relatives.

James' father had never held Mr and Mrs Black in high esteem, but came to regard Sirius and his rebellious streak very highly. And so the eldest Black son came to stay with the Potters each summer in Godric's Hollow, and finally James had a brother, and came to realise what had been missing in his life up to that point.

Those times accounted for some of his favourite memories: sprinting through coarse grasses to the old, crumbling manor; climbing up the sparse trees in search of something they had not yet seen; wading upwards through the marshy stream, thoroughly soaked but exuberant; and boldly fighting their way through fierce, thorny bushes as they descended the gradual, heathery slopes; inventing stories by the fireplace in the cottage, listening to the powerful wind as it swept across the moor like a reckless, unstoppable flier.

Then, with the War growing worse and worse each year, they saw less and less of Godric's Hollow, and by fifth year his parents had moved to London permanently, as it was in closer proximity to the Ministry, where Mr Potter had been a senior advisor. The cottage was left, "to be saved for better times," as his father had said, and James had not seen the old building and the beautiful land since.

He missed it sorely.

Now with Sirius financially independent and ready and willing to buy a place of his own, he wondered if, without Sirius, the narrow townhouse in London with its cold, empty rooms and small, bare garden could ever be called home.

"Prongs, it's not as though he won't let you stay with him!" came Remus' optimistic voice, and James smiled at the reassuring words of his sensible friend.

"I know – and I can't wait to see what he buys," he said, the grass tickling his neck as he settled back into it, and feeling the happiness he had felt shortly before return. "Undoubtedly something that will go against every grain of thought present in The Noble House of Black."

"So this is where you went," came Peter's jovial voice, and sure enough, it was his generous outline that was silhouetted against the sky when James looked up. "I couldn't find either of you down by the lake."

He seemed out of breath, but he was beaming, a bottle swaying from one hand and a handful of Filibusters in another.

"Are you coming back down?" he asked hopefully.

Remus nodded, leaning his hand against the tree and standing up, taking his mead with him. He looked expectantly at James, who made no move to rise from the grass.

"Coming, Prongs?"

"In a bit," he answered. "I'm waiting for my balance to return – mead and Firewhiskey do not make a good combination."

Peter nodded, somewhat dejectedly, as he turned to go down to the lake with Remus.

"Wait, Worm," exclaimed James, taking the enchanted bottle from the ground beside him, and held it up to his friend when he turned around. "Bring this to Philip York, but don't say it's from me, and whatever you do, don't drink it."

Peter grinned and nodded, not questioning the effects this would have on York. He always said that he liked to be surprised when it came to James and Sirius' tricks on others, and though the amount of these had dwindled over time, he was still always up for a laugh. Of course, he was still often on the receiving end, but he always bore it well, with his good sense of humour.

"See you in a bit then," said Remus, and James watched them run down the slope together towards the lake, Peter letting out whoops of excited laughter, Remus chuckling good-naturedly alongside him.

The night, which had descended swiftly hours before, should have by now fully accomplished its usual task of steeping the world in black. But the fireworks mocked it; they were the voices of defiance from the ground, loudly calling a proud victory and momentarily thwarting the oppressive and inescapable hours between sunset and sunrise with intermittent flashes. Determined, they raced headlong into the unknown, expansive sky, streaking upward to brighten it in a single second; with death, they generated an impressive spectacle of defiance to the tyrannical darkness, commanding attention like nothing else.

James stretched out his arms and closed his eyes, blocking out the immense dizziness that had been brought on by drinking the mead too soon after Firewhiskey. He could feel the swelling heat of the fire close by, and the red bursts of lakeside fireworks penetrated his closed eyelids. As he often did after matches, he felt that he was flying again, even while remaining stationary in the grass. The red lights became the scarlet blurs of his team mates as, with an inward grin, he travelled back to the match, to the cheers and gasps of the crowd, to the Quaffle darting between him and Sadhbh and Chameli, the saves of Barry Ryan and the defeated Slytherin faces at Rory Stone's capture of the Snitch…

"I see you took my place."

James' eyes flashed open.

As they readjusted to the dark night air, which, apart from the fleeting skyward blazes was lit only by the flickering bonfire, he looked past the clustered silhouettes of his classmates and to the slim figure standing before him. Her school robes were wet and creased, as though they had been taken for a wade in the lake, and her long, dark red hair was swept over one shoulder, gleaming in the light of the brilliant flames. Her arms were crossed, but he detected some degree of amusement on her pretty face as she turned her head to one side impatiently.

"Well?"

"Hello, Evans," he said, as pleasantly as he could, realising with some vague degree of embarrassment that he had been staring at her.

"Hello, Potter," she replied, equally pleasantly.

James sat up, his hand brushing away the small twigs that had clung to the back of his Quidditch robes, and then shrugged, gesturing to the empty space beside him.

"There's room for both of us."

She looked somewhat suspiciously at him as she sat down, but seemed adequately content to stay there. James glanced over at Sirius, whose attentions were now totally focused on the fifth year girl he was with, and was therefore incapable of acknowledging who had just sat down beside his best friend.

"You played well," she said, and when he looked up James saw that she was smiling.

"Thanks," he replied, not bothering to hide his amazement that she of all people would admit it. He wondered if she had come here expecting to find Remus; they had, as both were prefects in the past year, become quite friendly – but Lily didn't seem to notice his absence.

"Why the war-paint?" she asked curiously, settling back against the smooth silvery bark of the tree, her elbows pressing into the earth, surveying him closely with her green, wide-set eyes.

"Oh, that," he said, suddenly remembering the two horizontal red streaks painted across both of his cheeks. "It was Rory Stone's idea."

She nodded, raising her hand to her hair and smoothing it over one shoulder again.

A lone firework suddenly exploded in the branches of the beech tree above them, and red and gold sparks rained down on the gathering of students, the air filling with shrieks of delight. Lily laughed, her hand outstretched, the shimmers pouring onto her palm.

James felt an excited burst of adrenaline in his chest, resurfacing above the alcohol-induced drowsiness, and his heart pumped energetically when he looked away from her and at the flashing sky. He was seized with an urgent, tremendous desire just to be with her, and everything unrelated to this abandoned his mind completely.

The bang that had erupted through the balmy summer trees brought a rapid trail of moths from the forest, flapping their wings against the tips of the leaves and creating a light breeze as they neared the glowing fire.

Feeling strangely terrified, yet also compelled, to look at her, James cautiously directed his eyes in her direction. Now, the red and gold sparks were dancing through her fingers and onto the grass and broken twigs beneath them. Resting her head on her elbow, her white shirt collar crooked against her wrist, and her tie slung casually about her shoulders, he saw her watch the last vibrant sparks closely, as they disappeared into the ground. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Sirius' loud, bark-like laughter; he sounded a million miles away. Lily brushed a strand of hair away from her face, before looking right up at him.

"Why does he laugh so much?"

"Sirius?" he heard himself reply. "He laughs at everything. I think the world could end, and he'd still find some deal of hilarity in it."

His own voice seemed as distant as Sirius' laughter. He was barely conscious of speaking – this odd, intense, uncontrollable feeling had overwhelmed him completely.

"You know, for ages in first year, I thought you were brothers."

"Well, I suppose we sort of are," he said, jolting slightly at the sound of her voice, trying with great difficulty to assume a normal expression when he felt as though Peter had released a Filibuster inside him.

"Do you think it is?" she asked quietly.

"Do I think what is?" he asked her, his heart and head pounding rather uncomfortably.

"The world," she answered, looking off into the blazing night and pulling a handful of grass from the earth. "Do you think it's ending?"

James sat upright, closing his eyes to a rush of dizziness and shaking his head. He felt the firm ground beneath him and the heat of the blazing fire, and gradually he found himself able to put his mind in order. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see her looking at him inquisitively from the grass.

"Why are you asking me if I think the world is ending?"

"Because you suggested it," she said, her eyes widening, as though it was obvious.

He thought for a moment, sitting back and sighing. He knew this was not some vague question on her part – she was speaking about the War that currently dominated everyone's thoughts, in some form or another. No-one, no matter which side they were in support of, knew what the future would hold, but for them it seemed bleak.

In one year the situation had worsened enough to make people envious of the former. There were widespread massacres of Muggle villages; defenceless against the powers of Dark Magic, they had become the recreational prey of the Death Eaters. Whole families had been slaughtered in their beds, Muggle and magical alike, and all the time Wizard families were leaving, fleeing the jeopardy of their own homes. James' own class had dropped in numbers, and even at this gathering he could name at least twenty people who should be present, but who had left Britain with their families for presumably safer havens, either on the continent or even further abroad.

It had never been vocalised, but James worried, as he knew others must, that between leaving Hogwarts at the end of this month and returning next September, there was a very high chance of some of his own classmates being killed. As sickening a thought as this was, he could not help thinking that perhaps tonight was the last time they would all be together, laughing about nothing and running without being chased, cheering and singing for no reason other than to hear the sound of their own voices.

"Don't be so pessimistic," he said loudly, more to himself than to Lily.

"That's one answer," she decided, with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. She frowned, examining one end of her striped tie. "You think I'm a pessimist?"

"No," he replied, lying down on his side to look at her. "I just don't want it to end, so maybe it won't happen."

"You're being presumptuous," she said, smiling again, and another red flash in the sky illuminated her lovely face.

"You always say that."

"I said it once."

"Yeah," James laughed, inclining his head upwards. "And we won the Cup, didn't we?"

Lily raised her eyebrows and then grinned, throwing the handful of grass at him.

"I'm a realist," he declared, and running his hand through his hair he pulled out several green stalks and threw them back at her. "And don't deny it – you just told me I flew well, and you're like McGonagall when it comes to complimenting me."

"So you think that if you want something enough, you'll get it, and that's being realistic?" she asked shrewdly, narrowing her gentle eyes.

"It's what I've been raised to believe, I'm afraid."

"But if…"

"If it all ended now, I couldn't be more dissatisfied," he concluded meaningfully, looking at her directly.

She smiled broadly, and the loud whistling of a firework sped above them, before bursting into a golden shimmers behind her.

"What about you?" he asked her. "And tell me, how could it all end now?"

"Lightning could strike this tree," she decided, tipping the firm trunk with her finger. "And I think I'd worry that my last conversation had been of very little substance – other than alcoholic."

"Hardly my fault," James said. "How much have you had to drink anyway?"

"Not as much as you," she laughed.

"I doubt that," he replied, sitting up. "I've had one Firewhiskey and a bottle of mead."

"That's all?" Lily asked in disbelief. "Then why do you look so… out of it?"

"You tell me," he exclaimed.

"I don't know," she said, reclining against the tree again and surveying him once more with those eyes. "Have you been struck by lightning?"

He looked away from her and up into the crimson sparks of the sky.

"Certainly feels like it."

It was only now that he became aware of how close she was to him, and that the space they occupied was rather small. He could see that there were blades of grass and small twigs in her straight auburn hair, and he began to pull them out, one by one. She made no effort to deter him; she sat beside him calmly, her chin resting in her hand, her mouth curved in a small smile as she watched him. The crackling flames sent waves of warmth towards them, and less frequently, only when a Filibuster streak burned in the sky, they were bathed in a fleeting red light, and even when these showed to James that there was nothing left in Lily's soft hair, he continued to search through it.

The thick boughs above them shook as a wind gathered from the lake, the leaves shuddering in their dark masses, and James heard the wings of fairies and the faint cry of an augery in its nest. The fireworks had ceased, and the fire had grown low; it cast long, cold shadows on the leafy ground in front of them. Lily shivered, leaning her head against his shoulder, but immediately bolted upright, looking around the clearing.

"Where is everyone?" she asked, and James followed her gaze to the space around them where, just an hour before, plenty of students had been. He stood, Lily taking his hand and hoisting herself up, before brushing down her robes. James followed suit, and they began to walk, following the distant sound of voices to the lake.

There they found the missing students, who had joined the milling throng by the lakeside. It was clear that the party had wound down; the group, he noticed, had grown much smaller, perhaps totalling roughly forty people. The students ahead were packed tightly together, their backs to them, as if awaiting another firework display.

It seemed also that a change in the weather had been a factor in the reduction of the amount of students; the air was increasingly cold; the wind rose in small dark waves on the lake, and the ends of Lily's hair blew against his cheek as they came towards the lakeside.

On the periphery of the group James saw gangly Theodore Gardiner, the fifth year Gryffindor Beater, standing with his neck craned over the heads of those in front of him.

He was frowning; his thick eyebrows creased downward, parallel to the red paint on his cheeks, but he looked slightly relieved when he saw James and Lily approach.

"What's going on Ted?" James asked, half-reluctant to hear an answer.

Theodore smiled weakly.

"Sorry to say it, Jim, but some of your favourite people in the world have arrived," he replied quietly.

James comprehended and sighed, and with an exasperated glance towards Theodore roughly pushed through the knot of students with Lily close behind him. Emerging on the other side of the group, they saw clearly what everyone's attention had been directed towards.

A sizeable group of Slytherins, including what looked like their entire Quidditch team, stood before them. Each was dressed in green, either as supporters or players, and there was a very unpleasant stench about their robes. Why they had chosen to make an appearance at their opposing team's victory party, James could not fathom, but their expressions were worryingly smug for a house that had just been beaten.

He grasped his wand readily in the pocket of his scarlet robes, and joined Sirius, who was looking at the group with a highly amused expression.

"It looks like Gryffindor's Lucky Number Seven has finally decided to grace us with his presence," he heard a familiar, very sarcastic voice say.

In the faint wand-light James saw that the reference to the number stitched on his back had been made by the small, stringy figure in front of him. The speaker's large nose protruded from his shiny face like a beak, between two small black eyes which seemed to glint triumphantly at him.

"Snape," acknowledged James coldly.

"The epitome of cool," Sirius added, to a burst of laughter from the Gryffindors.

Severus Snape seemed to ignore this remark, remaining motionless, his expression quite unchanged. Beside him the Slytherin captain, Cuthbert Mole, narrowed his eyes angrily, and James realised that these two were probably the oldest of the lot. On closer inspection, he saw that the majority of the green-clad group they were being confronted by was made up of much younger years; many he didn't recognise at all. This barrage behind Snape had their arms folded in what they seemed to hope was an intimidating manner, but their childish statures eliminated any cause for concern.

"Enjoying your little victory, Potter?" Snape asked, his tone soft and sardonic, and James glanced back at him, trying to figure out what his agenda was.

"Until you came along," was his reply, accompanied by sounds of agreement from the Gryffindor crowd.

"Merlin," Sirius exclaimed loudly, gesturing to the other Slytherins. "Snivelly has henchmen now!"

"What are they Snape, first years?" provoked James, grinning at the sounds of indignation from the group in green.

"Third," a brown-haired boy retorted viciously.

"Third?" asked Sirius incredulously. "I can't even remember that far back!"

"Perhaps you were drunk," Snape condescended, his thin mouth twisted into a horrible smirk.

"Perhaps the memory of you going through puberty is so unpleasant that I have repressed it."

A roar of laughter from the Gryffindor throng contrasted the Slytherins' thoroughly aggravated expressions. But Snape's expression had not changed. It still looked somehow triumphant, and unsettlingly so, as he moved threateningly forward.

"Well as I was saying, Potter, before I was rudely interrupted," he said, addressing James but glancing at Sirius, who eyed him with a mixed look of amusement and revulsion. "It's nice to see you're not… drowning your sorrows."

Sirius' face darkened immediately, and the crowd fell silent; for a moment nothing could be heard but the rhythmic lapping of lake water on the shore.

"What's that supposed to mean?" James asked dangerously, his blood boiling.

Snape said nothing, but the smirk returned, leering triumphantly, knowing that he had touched a nerve. His empty black eyes widened and his back tensed, as if anticipating what he believed inevitable – the collision between James' fist and his face.

Twigs snapped beneath his feet as James started forward, his wand drawn, filled with an fervent wish to hurt him like never before, and though he knew that this would only fulfil Snape's expectations, he did not care. He was stopped, however, too soon in his tracks by a strong grip around his right arm, forcing him backward.

"Don't," Remus said quietly into his ear.

James heard the mocking laughter of the Slytherins, and tried to dart forward again, but Remus, in spite of his slight frame, resisted his efforts to even jinx Snape, and prevented him from making any further progress.

But Snape, unlike the rest of his house present, did not seem at all amused. His facial expression was uncharacteristically obvious: it was one of utter loathing, directed not at James but at Remus. Satisfied that he was no longer attempting to break free, Remus relaxed the grip on James' arm slightly as he looked up, also noticing the hatred radiating from the Slytherin's sallow face.

"No full moon tonight," he said in a low voice, running his long fingers through his greasy hair, imitating James' habit. "What a pity."

"You mean you'd like to see one?" Sirius asked quickly, before any of the onlookers could comprehend Snape's remark. He jovially reached for the top of the back of his trousers, to the sound of cheering from the group of girls behind him.

Though Sirius had successfully diverted the crowd's attention, James saw the deep anxiety in Remus' face that had been generated by that remark. His friend feared the discovery of his lycanthropy among his fellow students greatly, and it was due to Sirius' own constant wish to trick or humiliate Snape that the knowledge had been passed to their Slytherin enemy.

He resisted the urge to hex him by recalling that Lily Evans stood close by.

"What exactly brings you here, Snape?" James then asked in a bored voice, having regained control over his emotions once more. "And surely it's not the prospect of seeing Sirius' arse..."

The Gryffindors erupted again, and Snape's eyes shifted away from him with detestation, and back to Remus.

"If it was to find an excuse to get him expelled," said Barry Ryan, gesturing to James, "it didn't work."

"It would have," Snape snarled, rounding on Remus.

"Piss off Snivelly," said James, forcefully pushing him away from his friend.

Snape stood very still for a moment, contemplating what he would do next. The younger Slytherins, James could see, were very eager to get away, and James wondered what had been held over them to make them come down to the lakeside in the early hours of the morning. They shifted their feet from side to side uncomfortably, and he saw that Cuthbert Mole was looking annoyed, shivering in the cold air.

One by one, they began to turn around and slowly walk up the slope to the castle, but Snape did not even seem to notice that his group had abandoned him. He stared past Remus towards someone else in the crowd, and then back. Never one to take orders, especially from James, he did not expect that Snape would "piss off" as he had asked of him, and so kept his wand drawn readily.

So it was with a great deal of surprise that he saw Snape turn reluctantly away from them and follow the other green-clad Slytherin students towards the school. He lagged behind, walking awkwardly in that recognisably angular, round-shouldered gait up the sloping lawn, away from the lake and trees.

The Gryffindors heaved a collective sigh of relief; as much as Severus Snape was mocked and taunted by the more fearless members of the group, it was largely acknowledged that he had a great many unpleasant spells at his disposal, and rarely seemed afraid to use them.

"First time he's ever done anything worthwhile – pissing off," said Sirius happily, producing a cigarette from his pocket.

James nodded, but as he did so felt some invisible force rush past him from the direction of the castle, grazing his elbow and colliding with the person next to him. He whirled around to find Remus being flung onto the ground, his face covered with blood.

He cursed, and glanced up to see Snape's distant figure with his wand raised above his head, running up the steps and into the school.

Ignoring the screams of girls and the panicked voices of boys around him he knelt down beside his friend, who lay outstretched on the grass. He could see by his blinking eyes that he was still conscious, and exhaled a relieved sigh as he took Remus' arm and hoisted him to a sitting position. Immediately, the blood flowing down Remus' chin and dotting his shirt collar and tie, James enlisted the help of Sirius and Barry. Together, they pulled him to his feet and moved him as quickly as possible to the fallen log at the edge of the forest, several feet away.

Here, they sat him down, and James glanced around and Sadhbh Coolidge, her face painted like his was, threw him a Gryffindor scarf from the grass. This he bundled quickly into his fist and pressed up against Remus' nose, mopping the blood into the thick red and gold woollen stripes, to see where the incision had been made.

"It'll be ok, Moony, just relax," he told Remus, and Remus, his head tilted back slightly and his face half-obscured by the scarf, nodded jerkily, his scared blue eyes glancing from him to the black night sky.

Sirius swore angrily, casting a furious look to the castle.

"Tilt your head back, Moony," James said calmly, ignoring his best friend, knowing that Sirius, had he not been as disposed to seeing Remus better, would have sprinted up the lawn after Snape and by now would probably have cursed the greasy toad have into Hades.

"Head _back,_ Remus," he repeated urgently, kneeling up on the log beside him. But Remus seemed deaf to his words, and the blood dribbled freely down his chin. The woollen bundle of material in his fist was scarlet right through, and his hands were soaked with Remus' blood. His friend coughed, grimacing in pain as he spluttered flecks of red like an impatient firework.

As anxious as he was for his friend, he could not help but acknowledge the increase in his heart rate as he saw Lily sit down on the other side of Remus, gently laying his head down on her lap.

"Thanks," he said quickly, jumping down from the log and around to him, as Sirius swung Remus' legs up onto it, achieving a makeshift bed out of the fallen tree.

Dropping the bloodied, and now useless, scarf to the ground, he scanned around him for something else to cease the flow of Remus' blood. Then, finding nothing, he pulled off his scarlet Quidditch robes, his skin protesting to the cold night air he was exposed to in only shorts and a Quidditch jersey. With one corner, he wiped Remus' nose clean, and without hesitation cast a healing spell on the deep split in the skin there.

He heard Lily inhale as the skin joined, the tear woven together like a piece of new cloth. Remus blinked in Lily's lap, the pain obviously disappearing. His skin was still streaked with blood, reminding James oddly of the Gryffindor team's war-paint, and James, satisfied that there were no more incisions in his face, uttered a small scourgify spell to clean it. He flung his robes onto the grass, where the normally white number seven had stained scarlet, and sat back on his heels, exhaling with relief.

"I suppose it's only fair," Remus murmered, his voice hoarse. His blue eyes were glazed over, still staring into the sky.

"Fair?" James retorted angrily, sitting up straighter. "My team beat the lousy Slytherin one hollow today, and _you,_ of all people, get your nose sliced open – that isn't fair!"

Remus simply shrugged.

"Would you rather it happened to you?" he asked vaguely, rising his head off Lily's knees, flinching dizzily and clamping a hand to his forehead.

"C'mon," James heard Sirius say beside him. "We'll go back to the Common Room and finish up the party there. It's warmer; it's drier; and it's not prone to invasion by ugly gits."

"Wait," said Lily worriedly, looking at Remus, who had now succeeded in sitting up, rather weakly, on the log. "He needs a replenishing solution."

"I have some in the dorm," Remus replied immediately, rubbing his head again. "I'll be fine."

"Seriously?" she asked, still looking concerned and not totally credulous.

"He will, Lily," said Sadhbh convincingly, and she leaned over the log to get a good look at Remus' face. "This kind of thing can happen a lot during training – wayward Bludgers and the like – but Jim always sorts it out for us."

Lily nodded, but gazed at Remus' face studiously. Now, the only evidence of his injury was the shocked and rather annoyed look in his eyes, and the dried, rust-coloured blood on his collar.

"You ready to go up, then?" asked Sirius, offering him his arm, which Remus took gratefully, hoisting himself up onto the ground, where he swayed a little before steadying himself. Sirius put his arm under Remus', supporting him on one side while Sadhbh took the other, and James watched their three backs retreat slowly towards the castle.

"Why Remus?" Lily asked, and when James turned to her saw that she was looking to no-one in particular for the answer, rather just stared at the ground, her long hair hanging over one shoulder and her brow furrowed.

"Haven't the faintest," replied Barry, bending down to pick James' Quidditch robes up from the long grass beside the rotting log. "All I know is that those Slytherins – and that greasy one in particular – just like to cause trouble. And I mean _real_ trouble," he added. "Not just setting off fireworks and drinking the odd pint."

Lily stared ahead of her, frowning as she watched Remus' slight figure, supported on either side by the two others.

"And they always descend to the lowest forms of provocation if it means getting what they want," he continued meaningfully, handing James the stained robes. "And if they want Jimmy here expelled, they play dirty, just like at Quidditch."

James pulled on his comfortable robes, shielding himself from the lakeside breeze.

"Just as well you didn't attack him though, Jim," Barry said. "If a teacher had come down, our situation was dodgy enough – what with the drink and all."

"Thank Remus for that," said James grimly. The guilt of Remus' unnecessary injuries was more than enough to make him resolve to exercise more self-control next time he was confronted with Severus Snape.

Barry nodded, his scarlet robes swaying in the breeze.

"I suppose I'd better grab the rest of those Filibusters," he said, looking down to the lakeshore. "We'll let them off in the Common Room."

He left the log, descending the rough, shadowy slope to the black lake. An hour earlier, the scene had been ablaze with fireworks, but now it was nearly empty; the damp of the expanse of water was creeping into the ground, and few students remained. Lily rose and joined James as they walked, his robes and her skirt flecked with Remus' blood.

As they ascended the dark slope of lawn the grass moved around their feet, and James looked at her, her pretty eyes fixed on their destination. Then, she glanced up at him and smiled, sending shivers through his ribcage.

"Have you ever thought of being a Healer?" she asked.

"No, actually," he replied honestly.

"I mean – you fixed Remus up very quickly."

"Yeah, but Bludgers and Snape keep me well practised at that."

She sighed, watching their long shadows, cast by the bright windows of the entrance hall, as they merged together on the dark grass.

"I used to think I could play Quidditch for the rest of my life" James said, and she looked up attentively. "But that's impossible these days, especially as the league has folded."

"Well maybe these days won't last forever," she mused, wrapping her black robes around her to dispel the cold that surrounded them.

"A few hours ago you asked me if I thought the world was ending!"

"Well maybe it won't," she laughed. "At least, I'd rather it didn't."

"I'd like to think that too," he said watching her pull her hair around her shoulder. "My uncle captained England at the age of twenty-one. I've always dreamt of doing that."

"What was his name?" she asked curiously.

"Same as mine," he answered, grinning. "I never met him – he died before I was born."

"James Potter," she said, smiling to herself. "So Quidditch runs in your family then?"

"In my dad's side," he replied, remembering. "He used to say it skipped him completely though."

They both fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, and James realised that for the first time since his father's death he felt truly happy, just walking beside her, feeling her black robes swish against his red.

"I can't believe sixth year is over," Lily said sadly, stopping at the bottom of the steep castle steps and pressing her hand against the stone boulder on top of the pillar beside her. She paused, as though deliberating over what she would say next, before looking back up at him, and he was troubled to see her wide-set eyes saddened.

"I'm not looking forward to the holidays," she said unhappily. "I have to stay with my sister and her husband."

"Your have a sister?" James asked, surprised at this new piece of information. He had never heard her talk about her home, even before her parents died. Perhaps she thought it too irrelevant for discussion among classmates who were Pure-Blooded, like him.

"She's much older than me," she elaborated, placing her foot on the second step. "And not a Witch, if you were wondering. She and her husband live in Surrey, and lead the most boring lives imaginable."

"To be honest," she continued, brushing her hair out of her face as she ascended the steps, "I don't even know her that well. We didn't really grow up together – she was away at school when I was small, and I've been here for the past six years, so she's always seemed grown-up to me…"

She stopped, her cheeks reddening and looking slightly flustered.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this!"

"I don't mind," he told her truthfully, joining her on the step she stood on. "I never had any siblings, but –"

"You said Sirius was like your brother," she recollected.

"He is," he said. "But we didn't grow up together either. I didn't even know who he was until we came here."

She smiled weakly, looking down at the lawn, to the trees where they had sat together, time passing over them unnoticed, flowers, twigs and fireworks descending on them both. The forest swayed in time to the lapping lake water and the grey grass whispered; a swift path flattening into it as though a giant hand was caressing it. The stars were sparsely spread across the sky which dominated the world of darkness, allowing for mere dots of light to shine through it.

Lily stared out at it, and as James watched her he realised, as abruptly as a lightning strike hits the earth, that this deep, intense affection for her that he had experienced in recent months was not the result of a vague teenage attraction.

When she turned to complete the fleet of steps that led to the dark oak door he followed, largely unaware of doing so, and as she talked to him on the way up to the Gryffindor Tower about the upcoming exams he barely listened, thinking only about the passionate feeling that soared in his chest whenever he heard her speak.

James' friends, so helpful in other areas, would not understand this new, at once secretive and forthright emotion that overwhelmed his other senses. Lily was observed with small glances along the corridors, that he both hoped and dreaded would go unnoticed, wondering in a distant panic if she felt the same way.

He was in love with her.

* * *

**I'm terribly sorry ****about the**** long**** wait - I couldn't write as much as I would have liked, but I hope I made up for it with the length of this chapter!**

* * *

**I'll Open Your Book: **Thank you very much! I loved writing the professors, as I agree – they don't get explored very much, but I found Slughorn very fun to write, as he's quite a comical character, but at the same time has a lot of depth. So here's Chapter 19 – and sorry it took so long! But yes, as you read, there was drama between James and Lily, and I hope you enjoyed it – "charming" is very much appreciated, by the way!

**shahenshah: **Thank you for your lovely review – I don't mind that there aren't that many – the ones I receive are nice and constructive, so I'd rather get them than otherwise! I'm glad you like the mood – the atmosphere is very important to me, and so is the balance between cheeriness and gloom – it takes place during a violent war, but the people involved are mostly teenagers, still exploring life, who like to have fun. I find that the varying points of view help in constructing that atmosphere, and with the storytelling, but maybe if people prefer one character more than another they don't like when I switch from that character. Anyway, thank you!

**Opal Roseblossom: **Sorry if it stopped too abruptly – I haven't had a lot of time to write, and I intended that chapter to be shorter, but I had a lot of other stuff to do (unfortunately for the writing)! Apologies for the length of time it took for this chapter to be written – again, general business – but I think this one is long enough – hope you enjoyed it!

**gabstergirl85: **Thank you – it's lovely to hear from someone who has been reading it for so long! I'm glad to hear you appreciate the different points of view – I like delving into the different characters. Anyway, I think you get some L/J action in this chapter, and I hope you're pleased with it!

**A.M.bookwrm247: **Wow – this is such a lovely review – thank you! I'm really glad that you enjoy reading it, and that you've taken to the portrayals so well – it's so encouraging! I really hope you liked this chapter – it took ages to write – sorry about that. I'm happy to receive feedback – so let me know what you thought – once again, thank you!

**Mariah: **Thank you – I'm very sorry that this was an immensely slow update, but I really hope you liked it, and won't have boycotted my writing for taking so long!

**Jay: **Thank you very much! I'm very appreciative of the fact that you enjoy examination of the "extras" – often I think they're more interesting to write, as they're not as limited when it comes to writing about them and their thoughts. Sorry about the wait – it was a long one, I know. But I hope the length of this chapter makes up for it, and hope that you enjoyed it!


	20. The Smoking Motorbike and Henri Champney

**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**The Smoking Motorbike and Henri Champney's Sons**

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A large, aged radio had obscured the delicately painted saucers on the kitchen dresser for days. Lining its top were large, irregular buttons, which reminded the onlooker of a jawless set of discoloured teeth, and jutting from the machine at an awkward angle was the aerial – a thin metal line which allowed an anxious English voice to crackle intermittently through the grilled speakers.

Outside, the French countryside was scorched yellow by a hot summer sun, which shone fiercely from its brilliant and cloudless sky. The trees by the kitchen window were untroubled by any suggestion of wind, but their shade did appear to provide some relief from the intense heat, for beneath the cluster that stood beside the white walls James could see his mother, reclining on a chair and nodding at something her friend, Isabelle, had said as she looked up from her painting easel.

"So what do you think?" asked Sirius, biting into a large tomato, procured from the yellow bowl on the table.

"…Of you buying a growling Muggle bicycle?" James asked, laughing as he tore a piece from a baguette that lay on the counter. The kitchen was a cool refuge from the midday heat.

"A _motorbike_," Sirius corrected, grinning at the very thought.

He had seen Sirius' enthusiasm a few days before, when passing through the narrow streets of the nearby village. A huge, gleaming "motorbike" – as he had called it – had been standing upright outside a small shop, and had immediately caught Sirius' eye. Though James had been more interested in a small game taking place across the road – involving kicking about something that mildly resembled a Quaffle – he followed his best friend to the Muggle machine.

It appeared to James an excessively complicated mode of transport to become enamoured with. But when its long-haired owner emerged from the shop, gave them both a salutary nod, climbed onto the saddle and roared off down the road, leaving behind a long trail of dust, he could see why it appealed to Sirius. Sirius had always held a deep admiration for anything that would revolt Mrs Black – which included loud noise, dirt, and any type of Muggle artefact whatsoever – and this apparatus seemed to be a perfect combination of all three.

Since then, Sirius had mentioned the machine from time to time, but it was only this afternoon that he voiced any desire to actually buy it.

"It'd be a good way to get around," he continued brightly, "and I have the money Uncle Alphard left me –"

"We'll improve it, I suppose?"

"But of course!" Sirius exclaimed, popping a grape into his mouth. "_Improvements_, as I call them… are perfectly legal in this country."

"I suppose that takes a bit from their appeal," James said mildly, passing the dresser upon where the old radio was perched.

"Well, in _this_ country, they're legal – just look at Isabelle's underwater Citroën. But at home, it's a different matter…"

"Everything's a different matter at home," James said, frowning slightly and twitching the radio aerial so that the WWN voice became clearer.

"_The European Ministries have called for a halt to the mass exodus of wizards from Great Britain…_" the voice said, worried but eloquently.

Sirius shuddered, turning to look through the window at the calm countryside that surrounded them.

"_…The European Ministries, gathered at an emergency council in Vienna this morning, expressed not only their concern for the suffering of the people of Great Britain, but concern for the rest of the European continent, and a wish to contain the violence in its country of origin in the hope that _You Know Who's _ideology and influence will not spread elsewhere_."

"_Prominent objectors to this proposal included Professor Albus Dumbledore, who dismissed this notion of containment as_ 'an act of complete barbarity', _and described the total isolation of _You Know Who_'s power as_ 'in this manner, impossible'."

James felt as worried as Sirius looked, but tried not to appear too anxious for his friend's sake, nudging the aerial so that the grim voice faded into unintelligible static.

"So, will we go and get that mugglebike?" he asked brightly, succeeding in keeping the shake out of his voice. Sirius grunted, and followed him out into the glaring sunlight.

His mother smiled from under the large brim of her sunhat as they passed.

"Where are you two going?" she asked, the shadows of the leaves overhead dappling her face.

"Into the village," James answered, sticking his hands into his pockets and walking in what he hoped was a reasonably unassuming manner. Both women nodded, and James and Sirius set off down the dusty avenue and towards the main road.

In the afternoon heat the village was rather sleepy; on the upper parts of buildings the painted shutters were closed tightly, to keep the interior cool, and the whitewashed walls gleamed in the sunlight. They walked in the shade beneath the awnings of the bakery, past the sweet sights and smells that issued through its large display window.

"What makes you think we'll find that bike bloke again?" James asked suddenly.

"Fate," Sirius shrugged.

The street sloped gently downwards towards an old stone church, its spindly spire seen even from Madame Demarchalier's house. As they approached it, so an elderly man approached them. He hobbled, his two thin legs supported by a dark stick, which clacked against the cobbled ground as he walked – a third beat to his footsteps. In the crook of his left arm was a striped carrier bag, and the remaining wisps of white hair on his head were smoothed onto his skull as though drawn there.

Sirius, his mood brightening at the prospect of speaking French to a local, slowed his pace and said simply – and correctly –, "Bonjour Monsieur."

The man said nothing, but stopped and raised his grey eyes coldly to Sirius, before passing his gaze to James. The wrinkles in his face were so deep that it seemed they had been carved there by a knife, and the skin on either side of his prominent chin drooped over his tight shirt collar like putty. His fist tightened around his stick, whitening the weathered skin on his knuckles. For a moment his stood in this position, staring, almost accusingly, at them both. Then he turned his face away, and continued his hobble up the street.

"Not too friendly, is he?" asked Sirius loudly, shielding his eyes from the dazzling sun with his hand as he watched the retreating Muggle's hunched back.

"Maybe he has his reasons," James mused.

"Well, my French is hardly _that_ bad…"

They passed the grey stone church and crossed the large village square – where stood a towering war memorial – and onto a narrower street than the one they had been on, which James recognised from previous occasions by the peeling red paint on the front of the newsagents. On a metal rail in front of the window were stacked rows of fresh newspapers.

"Anything interesting?" asked Sirius, as James picked one up and set about mentally translating some of the headlines.

"Mainly that a famous American singer died yesterday," he replied, somewhat mystified at the lack of news about Britain in the Muggle paper. "It says here he's some sort of king…"

Sirius glanced at the oddly still photograph. "Never heard of him," he said, shaking his head. "Anything from home, though?"

"No."

James had just tossed the newspaper back onto the rack when both boys heard a distinct buzzing sound. It quickly grew louder, and seconds later, a motorbike whizzed around the corner, leaving the pages behind James fluttering in its wake. Instantly, Sirius was off, running as fast as he could in its direction, James following suit and quickly catching up.

They found themselves back out on the square again, and it was still rather empty, save for the motorcyclist, who was in the process of removing his helmet. A thick stream of smoke emitted from the engine, almost obscuring the large wheels of the bike.

"Is it the bloke from the other day?" asked James as Sirius, as though in a trance, stepped towards it.

"Salut," said the motorcyclist politely as he saw them approaching. James saw that he was a few years older than they were, and it was, as it happened, the very same young man from the previous day. He tried to wave the fumes away, but to no avail, and now the thick grey clouds were accompanied by small spluttering noises from the engine.

"Salut," James replied, as Sirius eyed the smoking vehicle with an expression of intense longing.

"Tu aimes le moto?" asked the motorcyclist somewhat incredulously.

"Oui, il l'aime beaucoup," replied James, whose knowledge of French, which had deteriorated since starting secondary school, had returned somewhat now that he was surrounded by it once again.

"What did you say?" asked Sirius, who had rejected any of the language he may have learned from his mother during his early days by way of simple rebellion, but naturally did not want to be left out of any conversation.

"He asked if you liked the bike, and I said that you did, very much."

"Ah – you are uhh… English?" asked the man as he bent down to examine the spluttering exhaust pipe.

They nodded, and he stood up.

"I'm afraid…" he said, gesturing to the billowing smoke, "this bike is no good, no good. This bike… uh... regardez."

He pointed at the metal frame, which was covered in a thick layer of orange, peeling rust.

"Et là aussi" – he pointed to the saddle, which on close inspection was ripped, revealing the yellowish stuffing inside.

"But it works!" exclaimed Sirius, who seemed to be even more attracted to the machine now that he saw how unkempt it was. The French man shook his head.

"Non. Too loud. Too big. Too, uh… smoking." He laughed good naturedly at his attempts, and then shook his head, grinning, and returned to his native language to explain.

"Je n'ai pas acheté ce moto," the man told James. "Mon ami m'a donné, mais il ne marche pas. C'est un peu dangereux…"

"He didn't buy it," James translated, watching the smoke rise to the sky past the memorial, " – his friend gave it to him, but it doesn't work. He also says it's a bit dangerous."

"Tell him I'll buy it," said Sirius determinedly.

"Bye?" the owner repeated blankly.

"Il va acheter ton moto," said James, and the man looked at him as though questioning both of their sanities.

"Mais pourquoi?" he turned to Sirius. "Why? It is… look – it is no good!"

"Because I want to," answered Sirius simply, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a bundle of notes. "It's all sterling – sorry."

The owner refused at first to accept Sirius' words. He seemed to think the younger man was mad, but having confirmed with James that this was a serious offer, he accepted the bundle, stepping bewilderedly away from the motorbike.

"Merci beaucoup," said Sirius gratefully, bending down and tracing with his fingertip a thin line of rust, as though it were a particularly fine detail on a work of art.

"Merci," James echoed, and the man nodded, his mouth still slightly open in disbelief. They watched him until he disappeared onto a side street, when instantly James stopped the flow of smoke from the exhaust, coughing as Sirius raised his arms in delight.

"What'll your mum say when we bring this filthy thing back to the farmhouse?" Sirius asked as they walked the motorbike up the street that led in that direction.

"Oh, I'm sure Isabelle will convince her it was a worthwhile investment, even if it doesn't look too well."

"If my mother saw it, she'd go completely spare," declared Sirius proudly. "It's loud, it spits, it smokes… Merlin, it's the Muggle version of me!"

"Yes, wheels and all."

"I'll give it to her for Christmas if I ever get sick of it." Sirius said decidedly. "No wait – that would be a bit _too_ kind."

Now that the road was deserted they relinquished their hold on the motorbike and let it go by itself, happily chugging along between them. The sky was a dazzling blue, and the road so dusty that as they walked swirls of brown powder formed behind them. Lining the edge of the road were hedges, divided at times by a narrow wooden gates – the pedestrian entrances to cottages and farmhouses along this stretch.

"I can't wait to get back to Hogwarts," said Sirius suddenly, after some time of walking in silence. Their shadows were beginning to stretch, and James paused to kick at a stone, the dust clouding in swarms about his legs.

"Do you think they'll actually close the British border? To 'contain' Voldemort and his cronies?"

Sirius frowned for a moment, before deciding what he thought. "Nah," he said with a shrug. "Besides, even if they do, they'd give us plenty of warning…"

"Yeah," said James angrily. "Then as many people as possible would leave, except for the ones who side with him, and then what's left to fight him? The _Muggles_? That's just giving him exactly what he wants. Once he has Britain, he won't stop – he'll get Ireland, and then he'll come here, then he'll keep moving around until he gets the rest of Europe… and then it's wherever the Hades he likes!"

"Dumbledore won't leave," said Sirius confidently. "As long as he's around there's some kind of resistance. And if there's some kind of resistance, I'm fighting with it."

"We'll be the resistance."

His voice seemed to echo along the stretch of road, and a slight wind blew the dry earth up from it. The yellowing leaves swayed beneath the sunlight, casting shadow changes on the dry, thirsty path, and as James ran his hand through his hair, thinking of life back home. Along the path to their right was a row of parched flowers, planted just beneath a little red gate, shadowed by thick branches above.

James squinted against the sunlight at the tree – its leaves seemed to whisper to him in the faint breeze – when suddenly he became aware of a figure standing beneath it.

_"Sketch!_"

Instantly, Sirius' most recent purchase hit the ground, skimming along the road until it came to a stop, right at the foot of the gate which stood before the man. They both ran after it, heaving it up off the ground and brushing the dust off it.

"Désolé," James said in apology to the man, whom he suddenly recognised.

In the shadows his face looked different – even older somehow – his wrinkles were hewn so deeply that they now looked like scars. His knuckles gripped the gate as they had a stick, hours before, and his nostrils were flared in what appeared to be anger. He stared at them again, that same cold, long stare, before commencing his fist-shaking diatribe. His rapid French, James could not understand, but they both knew what it contained, having heard the same indignant tones in English many times before. They ran as fast as they could while pushing the heavy bike in front of them, and it wasn't long before they were at a safe distance from him, turning into the avenue that led to Isabelle Demarchalier's house.

"Do you think he saw…?"

"The motorbike being pushed by no-one?" Sirius laughed. "In some ways, I hope he did!"

As had been expected, James' mother did create a bit of a fuss when they brought the bike up to the house – "It's so dusty – Sirius, dear, why didn't you get a new one, if anything?"

But once assured that it would not go near her until they had worked on it, she was content with Isabelle's suggestion that they put it in the yard behind the house, where they could work on it that evening, and she laughed as they described the previous owner to her over dinner.

"But I suppose Muggles don't see the potential of their items in the way wizards do," she mused, as Isabelle poured red wine into their glasses. "What are your plans for it, Sirius?"

"I'll paint it, for a start," answered Sirius.

"Black, I presume?" asked Isabelle with a grin, handing James a plate of bread.

"Naturally," James affirmed.

"And then?" Mrs Potter asked, helping herself to the salad.

"You'll see," said Sirius rather enigmatically.

"I look forward to it," said James' mother with a smile.

She clipped back a strand of her hair with a wave of her wand, and James saw with some surprise that her hand looked very old and pale. He had always known his parents to be quite a lot more "grown-up" than he was, but now as he looked across the table at his mother he realised that she was looking rather frailer than he was used to seeing her. Though she had been in good spirits since they had met at King's Cross Station, he couldn't help but notice that she wasn't as active as she had been, preferring to stay at the farmhouse than even to go into the village, where the shops and cafés were.

"Isabelle," he started suddenly, being strangely reminded of this by his mother's appearance. "There's a man we encountered – twice. He seems to live in a house near here with a red gate…"

"Yes. That would be Monsieur Henri Champney. Why, how did he treat you?"

"With contempt, to be honest," answered James, thinking back to the expression on the elderly man's face.

Isabelle sighed, drumming her slender fingers against her fork. "Yes, I think that could be expected in relation to both of you." She lifted her fork onto the plate before elaborating. "As you both know, the War of Grindelwald coincided with a Muggle war, which was on a scale more massive than anything they could have possibly imagined. Millions of Muggles were senselessly slaughtered – many on the battlefield."

"When I first came to this region with Luc" – she glanced at his framed photograph beside the radio – " in the 1930s, Champney was an entirely different man to the one you met today. He was a highly extroverted fellow – he'd throw parties at his house for neighbours, always reaching out to the shyer types to make sure they got involved. He wrote articles for the national newspapers and was held in high esteem for his opinions on different matters, and was always seen kicking a ball about with his two treasured sons, Alexandre and Étienne."

"When the war broke out in thirty-nine, Alex and Étienne Champney, who were at that time about your age, perhaps a little bit older, joined the army. Henri was so proud to see them in their uniforms, believing that they would fight and win the cause. I remember him waving them off from the square, believing they would be home by Christmas."

She sighed.

"Neither young man returned. They became posthumously decorated heroes of the war, held as a shining example for others. The war memorial at the centre of the square has their names on it, and Henri goes there every single day, without fail, regardless of his state of health..."

"But I know that he does not go to that square to see their names set in stone. He goes there thinking of the day he proudly watched his boys leave, and waits, in vain, for them to return. All other activity has lost meaning to him."

A sad silence filled the kitchen following the story of Henri Champney and his dead sons, and the elderly face – the sad, scarred face, coming back from another empty visit to the square – appeared in James' mind as clearly as if the hunched man stood before him now. He remembered the declarations he and Sirius had made as they walked beside his house, and wondered with a shudder if Henri Champney's sons had said the same things long ago.

Later that evening, James and Sirius stood outside in the cool night air, admiring their handiwork. The motorbike was now a gleaming black, with a comfort-charmed saddle, invisibility power, and silencer spells. Currently, the main thing left to do was to make it capable of flight, which they considered the easiest of all improvements they could make to it.

The sky above them was very clear – a scatter of stars shimmered beyond the dark surrounding slopes, and above them that faint wind blew again, scattering leaves into James' hair. He smiled as he pulled one out, remembering how close they had sat, beneath the branches of the silver beech tree.

Merlin, he missed her.

Every night, to the sound of Sirius' snores, he would lie awake, thinking about her, worrying about her. At times, he didn't expect that he would ever see her again, and on these occasions he was filled with an overwhelming and unanticipated sense of despair.

Peter and Remus, they both knew, were perfectly all right. Neither had left Britain, but Remus, because of his condition, lived in an isolated region, and would therefore not be exposed to outbreaks of violence, which in recent times had been happening only in urban areas. Peter, who up until recently had lived in an apartment in Liverpool, had gone to live in an aunt's house by the sea, and James expected, from his letters, that he was faring well there.

But Lily…

Lily he knew next to nothing about. His greatest concern was that she was Muggle-born, and, as she had mentioned that rather blissful night of the Quidditch Cup Final, she would be spending her holidays with her older sister, who, according to her, knew very little about magic. He knew she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but in recent weeks even the most experienced of aurors had gone missing, leaving not a trace of evidence behind. Some of his most fearful imaginings had contained hearing the news that she had been killed, and he would shake himself from these ordeals wondering at them.

The summer holidays had approached at excessive speed once the Quidditch Final and the drudgery of exams had passed. For most students, it had been an occasion unlooked forward to, and James had been no exception. There was nothing at all unpleasant about Isabelle Demarchalier and her farmhouse – quite the opposite, in fact, but a terrible uncertainty in Britain had grown at that time regarding how the War, as they were now terming it, would progress. Muggle and Wizard casualties were mounting, and many families were fleeing for their own safety.

Professor Dumbledore had quashed rumours of Hogwart's imminent closure at the end-of-term feast, promising that it would certainly be "open for business" come September, but James had heard many of his fellow students' plans not to return, and had shuddered at the possibility of their so doing involuntarily.

Since the night of the final – which he had dwelled on constantly – James had been without exception denied every chance to speak with Lily alone, much to his annoyance. The exams had overwhelmed an entire week, and in their run-up the teachers had ensured that each sixth year was present at supervised study – an ordeal that he and Sirius, try as they might, could not escape. Hogwarts was (as they were severely reminded by McGonagall after one near-successful attempt), primarily focused on educating them, and therefore did not exist – according to her – to serve the purpose of a playground.

Thus, he had been forced to comply, and the only audience he had had with Lily Evans had been within the crowded confines of the library, with a sniggering Sirius at his side and the room frequently shushed into total silence by the vicious Madam Pince. On these occasions he had tried to content himself with watching her from a distance, now and then exchanging smiles as she looked up from her textbooks, but this had not satisfied him.

More frustrating still, was the fact that there had been no further chance meetings, and she had seemed in no rush to talk to him of her own accord, which now, during these brief despairing moments, caused him to question his memory of that night, the night of the Quidditch Cup Final – had he simply imagined that she felt the same way about him as he did about her?

Then, with the activity of exams themselves, and the full moon which preceded them by a matter of days, he could no longer afford to put his energy into thinking of her with such high expectations. He had resolved to do nothing about the matter until he received some sort of sign from her (which was a move he currently regretted). For those weeks he had kept to his resolution, but though he succeeded in ridding expectations of any kind from his mind, he had been utterly unable to stop thinking about her.

He sighed loudly, wrenching several stalks from the ground and threw them up into the air. Watching the short dry blades flutter away into the darkness, he thought once more about how her hair had felt against his fingers when he pulled the pieces of grass from it that night.

Smoke from Sirius' cigarette wafted towards him, and for a short while moths fluttered around its light as they stood, admiring the motorbike from various angles.

"So," said Sirius, crouching down at the back wheel and vanishing the cigarette from his hand. "We'll put the first flight charm here – and here."

"Then the second one should go on the front wheel – and a third for steering."

They set to work, Sirius at the back, James at the front. It took the best part of an hour, but they finally got the physics of the charms into a perfect balance. By this time, his mother and Isabelle had retired to bed; the lights in the orange-roofed house had been extinguished, but neither James nor Sirius, in spite of their efforts, were tired.

Together they walked across the field towards the orchard, the balmy night air soothing the dry ground.

"Do you remember when you first came to Godric's Hollow?"

"How could I forget?" laughed Sirius, as they sat on the orchard fence, looking at the globe of stars above them. "We went on a hunt – with your winged horses – and I had no idea what to do."

"Yeah… with Dad and his friends." James looked across the fields at the farmhouse. "Billy Forde was there – do you remember him? He made you drink brandy when you caught a chill."

"And I was what age – eleven? Yeah, and it was because you thought it would be a nice idea for us to walk across the stream in bare feet – in the middle of bleeding March –"

"You followed me," James interjected, laughing. "Merlin, I'll never forget the look on your face when you got onto Redback – I had thought until then, that Sirius Black wasn't afraid of anything!"

"Well, as I think Sir Billy Forde himself put it, I was "a city lad, more used to stairs than stars. Besides, Redback was a bit much for a beginner."

"I used to throw things at Billy when I was younger – that's why he preferred you – I didn't get any brandy that time."

"Where is he now?"

"Merlin knows," replied James, leaning back as far as he could from the fence without falling off. "He once said that he'd love to live on the sea, and go wherever the boat would take him."

"Do you remember that Christmas when we camped in the ruins of the manor, and the ground floor filled with snow?"

"It was like a preparation for the Shrieking Shack – only with snow, I mean."

"I love that place."

"Me too."

"I can't wait to see Hogwarts again," said Sirius, stretching out his arms and closing his eyes, as though imagining waking up in his four-poster.

"Yeah… but I'm worried to see how it'll have changed."

Sirius nodded, looking closely at him as though trying to detect something.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sirius answered mildly... "Do you remember when the Slytherin team attempted to kidnap you before the final match in second year?"

"They got more than they bargained for," he recalled fondly.

"You hexed the captain's nose until it resembled the shape of a banana," Sirius laughed.

"Good times," said James with a grin.

The silhouettes of the farmhouse and the church steeple beyond it were the only thing in sight that stayed still as a breeze rippled through the grass, rustling the leaves of the orchard trees behind them until they dropped to the ground like confetti. The sky was dotted with innumerable pinpricks of light, clustering and spreading to form constellations and shapes of one's own imagination.

"Are you in love with her?"

"Lily?" asked James, caught completely off guard.

"Don't give me that 'deer caught in wand-light' look," Sirius chuckled.

"It's been obvious to me for quite some time, so you might as well admit it."

James sighed, picking at the splinters of wood in the fence. "All right," he said quietly. "Yes, I think I am."

"You _think_ you are?"

"Fine. I know I am," he admitted shortly.

Sirius clapped his hands in victory, and James sat still, trying to smile at Sirius' expression but finding it quite difficult to do so.

"Sirius," he said, suddenly quite panicked, "I don't even know if and when I'll see her again! All this stuff we've been hearing on the WWN, and –"

"It's all in the stars Prongs," said Sirius, jumping off the fence and gesturing to the night sky. "What are the chances that you're both up there already!"

"Merlin," James moaned, rubbing his hand through his hair, "I'm going to bed."

He jumped off the fence and left the rustling leaves behind him, walking across the scorched field, beneath the stars with Sirius at his side, and towards the whitewashed house with the orange tiled roof, past the gleaming black motorcycle – the fruit of their labour, now more than ready to take to the skies.

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**Oh dear! I'm so, so, so sorry about the dire formatting - I had no idea it would turn out like that, I'd better just stick to Simple Mode - Html's too complicated! I hope this is something of an improvement! Forget it ever happened...**

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**Please leave behind a review if you have read it - I know, it took me about a million years to write this one, I'm sorry! (well, half of one)**

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**To all who have reviewed: **

**I'll Open Your Book: **Yes, it's now well over a year old! I hope you liked this chapter, there should be another one fairly soon, depending on when I get spare time to write. Glad you liked the drama of the last chapter anyway! (sorry about the lousy formatting, now it's all better!)

**MySite:** Thank you! Well now I've updated, not quite as soon as I had hoped, but here you go and I hope you like it!

**Jay: **Wow, thank you for such a detailed review – and no, I wasn't bored, just really encouraged by it! I'm really glad you appreciate the characterization – that part is really important to me, because in the canon a lot of the characters featured in the Marauder-era are sort of ghosts-of-characters, and not just Lily and James, but Sirius, also, as obviously Azkaban had an effected him enormously. As for the reactions regarding Lily's blood lineage, you'll have to wait and see, although I do look forward to that bit myself. Anyway, this chapter is very long, and the next one is like an extension of it, I think, so I really hope you liked it. Thank you again for your lovely review, it's very much appreciated.

**Bridgits: **Thank you! Well, there's plenty of Sirius in this fic, and I like writing him, so there'll be a lot more where that came from! I hope you like this chapter – you've waited long enough!

**erin: **Thank you very much! Yes, often Marauder-era fics are riddled with clichés, which I do try to steer clear of because I don't like reading them myself. I hope you appreciate this chapter – it's not hugely eventful but I liked bringing James and Sirius to rural France.

**rubber ducky 9: **I'm happy you liked the LJness! There isn't really a huge amount here but there will be in upcoming chapters. I really hope you enjoyed this one, anyway!

**Jewels: **Thank you – that's exactly what I've been working towards, the mood of the fic. It can't be too dark because they're teenagers, and writing an overly dark piece would honestly depress me a bit, but the fact that there's an ongoing war is really important – I can hardly gloss over it – so I like a combination of both, which I'm glad you like too. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it's been a while, I know!

**LazyLibra:** Thanks for reading – um, regarding the age thing – in OotP, it says that Lucius Malfoy is 41. In the same book it is implied that Harry was born when his parents were just over twenty, making Remus and Snape et al in that year thirty-five or thirty-six, meaning that Lucius Malfoy would be six years older than them. I don't think it ever says in the actual books that Molly was a year above Lily Evans as that makes no sense in terms of Hagrid's career as gamekeeper. And in terms of my spelling – I usually take pride in my spelling standards, I do use a spellchecker, and I'm always ashamed or annoyed to see a spelling mistake in my fics, but I think the "mistakes" that you refer to are actually due to the fact that I write in the UK/Irish English format, where for me "kerb" is indeed kerb and not "curb." We're both correct in this instance, and I assume therefore that you're used to North American English. The main differences would include my adding of a u towards the end of a word like "colour" as opposed to "color." It's not a huge thing, just language differences. Thanks for reading it anyway, and I hope you like this chapter!

**Dr Fawkes:** Thank you for your lovely and highly encouraging review! I didn't continue with Schnoogle, though perhaps I will now, because I found it a lot of effort and I didn't realise I had a fanbase there. Well at least you successfully tracked this one down! Thank you so much, and I hope you like this chapter. I loved writing Green as well, but it's hard to keep it going when I consider that the plot could be totally destroyed by Book 7. Anyway, we'll see!

**rembrandt: **Thank you very much for your appreciation of the characters. I hate when Peter is shown to be a really wimpy loser – if he had been, why would he have been in the "cool" group? Yes, he has weaknesses and insecurities which eventually lead him down the wrong path, but he hardly knows he's going to betray one of his best friends at this stage! And Lily… well everyone would now about his father's death anyway, regardless of the Daily Prophet, but she didn't really mention it because it's a sensitive issue, and she didn't want to possibly upset him. Oh, and I think the relationships changed probably the year Harry was born, or a bit before that. Not while still at school, I don't think. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this update!

**shay:** And so I have – that was chapter 20!

**Erica:** Now I have, it too a looooong time, but I did it eventually!


	21. Separations and Reunions

**Disclaimer: **I'm not JK Rowling - whatever you recognise is her doing, the rest is mine!

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**Red by Rockinfaerie**

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**Separations and Reunions**

* * *

Though the bright sun was only just beginning to ascend the wispily clouded, early sky, Mrs Potter held her orange parasol aloft, shielding her pale face from its glare. It had been a gift from Mr Potter, on his return from his travels to the Orient, many years before, but the colour had not faded, and the ornate black drawings had not lost any of their definition. She held it firmly in one gloved hand, the other placed in the crook of her son's bent elbow, as they walked side by side along a meandering path, which brought them along rows of small, yellowing trees and a thin trickle of stream.

The scenery was lovely, and the morning air fresh and cool, but her heart felt heavier then she had ever imagined possible. With every step and passing moment she felt a small eruption of fear inside her, which she made every effort to suppress as she attempted to reason with her son – lest her arguments be degraded to tearful, dismissible sobs.

"Admittedly," she said quietly, after a sufficient period of silence had elapsed, "Beauxbatons is not as historic as Hogwarts, but it is highly reputed for its academic excellence, and has such fascinating grounds – not to mention the strides it has made in recent years in terms of athletics…"

James did not answer, and plucked a tiny leave from a branch as he passed it, but appeared to be otherwise attentive.

"I could ask Isabelle to write to her former colleagues, to make inquiries – I'm sure it could all be arranged quite easily –"

"Mum…"

"Or you could complete your studies right here," she continued rather breathlessly, "– Isabelle has a wonderful collection of Transfiguration books, and we could retrieve our own things from the apartment in Paris… it could all be done -"

But she knew it was hopeless.

Ever since the WWN had announced that, as of the end of the present week, all access and egress to and from the island of Great Britain would be denied, both he and Sirius' moods had become increasingly melancholic. Only yesterday had it emerged that they were fully dedicated to their plan to return for the last year of school – which had, at the start of the summer, not seemed so serious an objective.

At first, she had been astounded by the apparent stupidity of their intentions. Returning permanently to a land that was, according to media reports, descending rapidly into violent, uncontrollable chaos, at the risk of being tortured, murdered or worse, and all for the sake of one academic year? She had likened it to dashing wandless into a perfectly signposted dragon's lair, or drinking clearly labelled poison to which there was no antidote.

As he walked calmly beside her along the sun-dappled path, she thought fearfully of the prospect of never seeing her son or Sirius again, thinking of that poor neighbouring Muggle who had lost both of his children in the War. It was the first time, she realised, that she had ever felt any sort of affinity with a member of the 'other' world, and it was a curious sensation.

She plotted their discussion, mentally tuning her voice to a mild and gentle key, but still her question leaped desperately away from her, and she knew, deep in her heart, that it would never receive a satisfactory answer.

"Must you go?"

"Yes," he answered shortly, looking straight ahead of him at the wide, tranquil fields. She closed her eyes for a moment, being too acquainted with his obstinate nature to envisage convincing him otherwise.

When she opened her eyes the stream gurgled lazily around the small rocks and stones behind him, glinting in the sunlight, and she almost half-expected him to break from her and run down the grassy verge, kick his shoes off and wade in, as he had frequently done at Godric's Hollow when he was a little boy. Instead, he stayed put, his expression determined, but his young face as pale as a unicorn's clear coat.

"Because," he elaborated, thrusting his free hand into his pocket in what struck her as a very school-boyish manner, "our country's being destroyed by a…" his face contorted into a scowl of deep hatred, "… menace, who seems capable of everything except being defeated – and it will remain that way unless there are people left to fight him…"

She was filled with a cold, dizzying sense of dread, as though every part of her maternal instinct was predicting the worst. Her eyes welled with tears, and both mother and son stopped as she wiped at her cheeks with a lace handkerchief, and he put a comforting arm around her.

"Oh don't," he pleaded, trying to smile at her. "Nothing enforced by the Ministry ever works these days – I'm sure we can make it over for Christmas. And if the border's still closed, you know that Sirius and I are experts at rule-breaking –"

Mrs Potter laughed from behind her mascara-blotted handkerchief. "Yes, as I have constantly been informed over the years by your deputy headmistress!"

She sighed, pulling him into her as she had done several months ago, in a place far removed from this narrow dusty path. Taking her parasol back from her son, she twirled it in her fingers, the black designs blurring momentarily as the frame spun around.

"I suppose," she said wistfully as they began to walk again, "I never did expect that your youth would be so different to mine… that was a time of peace, with little dwelling on my mind but the thought of what I would wear to the next... ballroom dance, or masquerade ball."

Fond memories of her youth rushed back to her – the tastes, the smells, chamber music flowing through high-ceilinged rooms… those distant days when she had just emerged from Hogwarts and into society - the fine gowns, the banquets, the garden parties flowing with exotic fruit, the lavish décor and palatial country mansions – how wonderful it had been.

Through it all, she had never once thought of that life as being a fleeting one. However, shattering developments in the decades since had brought about grave changes in Wizarding life, not least the devastating occurrence of the War of Grindelwald, and now, this wave of violence that was spreading the length and breadth of their home country.

Up until recently, alterations in Wizarding lifestyle: the demise of luxury and carefree social excursions, the enduring economic slump, the increase in crime, had been frequently discussed by members of her own generation. It was often concluded by such commentators that the significant rise in the British Wizarding population since the early part of the 20th century that had been the greatest contributor to plummeting living standards. This was a rise not brought about by increasing birth rates, but by the reintroduction at the time of magical education for Muggle-borns, which had been abolished in the late 1700s, owing, apparently, to "increased Muggle awareness of Wizarding existence."

Though she found it difficult to tolerate these social commentators (due to the fact that during "the heyday," as it was so termed, it was they who had been among the most drunken and unruly, and were therefore incapable of dispensing advice to the public on how best a society should function), she did find herself resenting the current, ugly situation for what it was, and could not help but wonder if the influx of Muggle-borns had been to blame.

In any case, it was hard to accept that her son should be subjected to such a nightmarish situation as the current escalating war, and wished she could instead provide him with the luxury of her early adulthood. She had thought, that if the British threat to Europe could be contained, she would introduce the boys not just to French social circles, but to her old friends in Italy, Austria, Spain, Germany, Greece and elsewhere, in the hope that their minds might be broadened further by meeting new people, outside their own immediate circle at home, which, she had often found, could be incredibly dull. That way they would not only be safe, but be entertained, able to forget their homeward grievances and start a new life for themselves, becoming acquainted with other old European Wizarding families, perhaps with a view to the future…

"Oh," she exclaimed suddenly, "How silly of me - I almost forgot. I received a lovely letter from Lucius yesterday, informing me of his engagement to Narcissa Black – Sirius' cousin. Lucius, married, can you imagine it?"

"No," James answered, with surprising coldness. In fact, suddenly he barely seemed interested, looking instead at the stream, which was crossed in the distance by an arched stone bridge. His arm where her hand rested had tensed suddenly at the sound of his uncle's name, which perplexed her greatly.

"Well," she continued, though still mystified by her son's reaction, "I do hope things work out happily for them. I believe they have just moved to Belgium, and though Lucius has not said anything in his letters to that effect, I believe that to be the case. I simply couldn't be happier for him, my dear little brother –"

"Stepbrother."

There was a long silence between them, during which they continued to walk, and the only sound heard was the flow of water beside them.

"That's the first time I've ever heard you refer to him as that," she remarked eventually, keeping her eyes to the ground.

That one terse word, though true, had both startled and upset her.

She had been enjoying the whims and excesses of her youth when the Malfoys, an old family her own family knew well, had been beset by tragedy. Lucius' mother, who had been barely older than herself, had died subsequent to his birth, leaving poor white-haired Mr Malfoy in a state of overwhelming loneliness and despair. Shortly afterwards he married her own mother, who had been a widow for quite some time.

Her mother's attitude to this marriage, which had been purely based on pity for this poor, aged friend, she could remember clearly. She could easily picture the small church in which their wedding took place, her mother standing dutiful and proud on the altar, next to the stooped man who, for the short remainder of his life, would be her stepfather. She had sat in the front pew, keeping quiet the little baby who was then quite oblivious to his surroundings, and who would grow into a mischievous little blond boy, before becoming the confident, talented young man that he was today.

Mrs Potter had wondered at the abrupt change which was wrought in her son's relationship with Lucius, with whom he had been on the best of terms in his younger years. She had never sought to find out how this apparent fray had occurred, but as it was a subject her son seemed reluctant to discuss, she thought it might be best avoided, and hoped that whatever argument they had had would soon resolve itself.

"I'm sorry Mum," he said quietly, looking genuinely upset. "I didn't mean to –"

"No, no, it's perfectly all right, darling," she answered, shaking her head to indicate that she knew he had meant no harm. "But I did think that you, of all people, having forged such a fantastic fraternal relationship with Sirius, would understand."

He nodded, but his expression, though upset, remained somewhat aloof. Her son looked tired, as though he had slept little the previous night. There were shadows under his eyes, and she wondered if his reluctance to eat had had anything to do with his impending return to England.

"James," she said gently, "If you're in any way frightened –"

"I'm not!" he exclaimed immediately, as though greatly offended. "Not…, not frightened, exactly… I mean, sometimes I get anxious for my friends, and you, and –"

He exhaled again, stopping, and casting his eyes downwards, before finishing sadly, "I don't even know if some of my schoolmates are even alive, let alone coming back for seventh year."

"Well," she began, in the hope of comforting him, "Peter and Remus are perfectly all right, aren't they? You've been receiving letters from them practically daily since we arrived here."

"Yeah," he acknowledged, beginning to smile a bit. "Remus has been at home, and Peter is staying at some sort of a seaside resort – they sound happy."

"You see? Not everything is as bad as the radio or newspapers make it appear."

Still he did not seem convinced. He was certainly determined to return, but she knew by his eyes that he was not sure what he was returning to. Their was an element of dread about his face, as though he thought his worst fears were about to be realised, and as though he too sensed that it would be best not to go.

She could not bear to see him unhappy. If, by staying with her, he continued along his current behavioural path – eating less, sleeping less, becoming more pale and withdrawn, she would never forgive herself for her selfishness.

Yet the memories returned, this time of her husband. She knew that, even in his later years, the War of Grindelwald had still haunted him... the experience had, in a sense, erected an unspoken, insurmountable barrier between them. The war had erupted within a year of her marriage, and he was frequently absent in its duration. He was initially one of the most privileged, issuing tasks and ensuring the upkeep of Wizarding Secrecy standards. When all order disintegrated, however, he went to the front, and she knew that, whatever ordeals he had experienced there, he came back with only the traces of the man he once was; all else had utterly changed.

A large part of her fear, therefore, was rooted not only in the possibility of her never seeing her son again, but the fact that he would - most certainly - be altered irreversibly by experience. The same silly wish returned, one which had frequented her thoughts throughout the summer - that she could mother him as a little boy again, issuing sensible direction and doing for him whatever she wished, free of any outside interference. But she knew that it was mere foolishness to imagine such scenes, and knew that whatever she wished, his wishes took precedence - they always had.

She then resigned herself, out of necessity, to a sort of vague optimism that things were better across the channel than they appeared to be from afar - the same idea that her son had just heard her promote, and walked slowly, dwelling on certain matters which had pressed on her mind whenever she had thought seriously of his returning. She retuned her voice - gulping away the pain that had risen in her throat, returning to its mild, business-like tone.

"You will call into Arabella's, won't you?" she heard herself say as the sun strengthened and blazed in the sky. "She'd love to see you - it's been so long. I think she lives in Surrey - I'll give you the address. One wonders, at these times, how everyone is managing... And don't forget that the Chelsea house is in perfectly good condition - the furniture has been covered over, of course, but other than that... Write frequently and please be careful - I can't bear the thought of losing you..."

Her voice briefly lost its footing and threatened to tumble into a clatter of broken sobs, but with a deep inhalation of the warm summer air she regained it, surveying the calm flowing waters of the stream and all its buzzing insects among the reeds.

"And," she continued, saying these last words with a sudden hint of a smile, "do behave. I don't know if Professor Minerva McGonagall knows our whereabouts, but I'm sure she's perfectly capable of tracking us down...!"

Her son, who had nodded and murmured affirmations throughout this little, rather rushed, speech, now looked immensely relieved, as though she had granted him a reprieve from some sort of terrible penalty. There was, however, a hue of sadness in his eyes which she knew reflected her own; for they stood together on the dusty, stretching path, wincing in the hot, now near-intolerable sun, facing a separation of indeterminate length.

* * *

As usual, the candles, their multiple flames casting a warm golden light about the cavernous room, were held aloft in the high ceiling, which perfectly resembled the one outside – streaked horizontally with the greys and oranges of a clouded, fading sun. But the Great Hall looked false: the House tables were bare and empty as props on a minimalist stage; benches and aisles devoid of chattering students. 

The only table occupied was that of the faculty, which was sparsely surrounded by the older staff members, some looking very dishevelled from a long journey that preceded their arrival, others grave and pessimistic, as though they expected the Great Hall to remain equally empty during the approaching academic year.

Minerva, her hair smoothed back in its customary tight bun, sat up straighter as Albus Dumbledore re-entered the room, having disposed of his dusty travelling cloak in the adjoining chamber. His robes, which were now revealed, were of a deep purple and exquisitely tailored, but were somewhat worn at the hem, reminding her forcibly of young Sirius Black's. In spite of this, he appeared to be in higher and more energetic spirits than those of his colleagues, for though he moved to his chair at the head of the table, he remained standing, looking around at them all appreciatively.

"Friends," he began, his long beard shining magnificently in the candlelight, "I cannot begin to articulate just how grateful I am for your loyalty. These are tremendously difficult times, times I don't think any of us throughout our long lives could have imagined in our wildest hours of dread."

His listeners nodded grimly in agreement.

"As we all know," he continued, "the situation has grown rapidly more urgent over the summer months. The European Wizarding Authority has unwisely closed the British border, effectively trapping the innocent and rewarding the guilty. This 'reign of darkness' – as Voldemort has termed it with a twisted, venomous pride – is worsening."

The rest of the table has winced in unison on hearing the name of the feared Dark Wizard, but he did not appear to have noticed. Albus' eyes held a hint of that fiery, burning anger, which she knew aroused insurmountable fear in his most powerful enemies. He placed a closed fist on the grooved surface of the table as if to steady himself, inhaling softly before speaking again.

"Rumours of Hogwarts' closure alarmed many students and parents alike. Few are privileged enough to escape to safer climes, and a substantial proportion, as we know, come from Muggle society, which as yet is unaware of the violent and frightening turbulence in our world."

"It is my firm belief," he said, gesturing at the space about him, "that this school is one of the very few safe havens left. And I take it as my personal duty, which I hope each of you understands, to protect each and every one of my pupils from Voldemort's horrors and influence alike."

He paused once more, and in her close proximity to him Minerva thought she saw tears of gratitude glistening in his eyes, though his voice remained as powerful and steady as ever.

"By joining me in doing so, I can only express my deep admiration for each of you. Coupled with this is my faith that by remaining in our besieged country, you make one of the greatest social contributions of our time – the provision of an education and shelter for our war-stricken youth."

The chair scraped along the floorboards as he sat into it, modest in his acknowledgement of the light applause that issued from his staff. His eyes travelled around the table, greeting people individually with his warm smile.

"I'm delighted to see you here, Horace," he said with a low voice and a tired grin to the Potions Master, who sat to his left and opposite Minerva. Professor Slughorn had aged somewhat since June, though he was no less portly – something she derived strange comfort from.

"Well old chap, I'm hardly getting any younger. Besides, I supposed that you'd find difficulty in procuring another Potions professor with teaching standards as high as mine."

Horace said this with a laughing wink, but there was an anxiety about his countenance that Minerva could not help observing, and she wondered at his remaining in Britain, when she had imagined, prior to her arrival at Hogwarts, that he would presently be gallivanting happily about casinos on the continent.

Rebekah Scotch sat to her left, tucking a wayward grey hair behind her ear as she addressed Minerva.

"There certainly are very few of us here," she murmured, casting her eyes around the table. Professor Binns was there, of course, having quickly settled into his customary sleepy demeanour, and so was Filius Flitwick, talking energetically to the enormous Hagrid, whose black eyes twinkled behind his scraggly mane. She was, as usual, correct, for in spite of these familiar faces, there were others whose absences were marked by the empty spaces between her colleagues.

Franz Gudgeon, last year's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and a quiet, experienced, thoroughly unassertive man, was nowhere to be seen. Frederick Boone, the absent-minded but brilliant Arithmancy Professor was also missing – Minerva had heard of his intentions to take refuge in Greece, and she hoped that the kindly man had reached his destination safely.

Minerva nodded in agreement, but before she could answer the Quidditch trainer, Albus had stood up again, this time tapping his glass lightly in a request for silence.

"Our stock has, as we all know, depleted substantially. However, I am most pleased to inform you that I have secured a new and very worthy young man to fill our recently emptied Defence Against the Dark Arts post. I'm sure," he said with a smile, "you will all remember him clearly."

Albus nodded to the doorway that adjoined the Great Hall to the one where he had left his travelling cloak. There stood the young man to whom he referred, his black robes blending smoothly with the dark shadows around him. He was a rather short man, with a prominent forehead and quite a stocky build, but when he emerged fully into the hall, she recognised his young, intelligent face instantly.

"Carodec Dearborn," she exclaimed in some surprise from the table, and he raised his dark eyebrows and nodded his head slightly by way of greeting.

For a moment, he appeared quite awkward and isolated at the edge of a group of his former teachers, who were reminded that he had always been quite a shy student. But with a flurry of robes he was almost immediately surrounded by their welcome handshakes and inquiries as to his well-being.

"Now then Carodec," Albus said as he led him to the table. "Might I offer you some tea? – You've made quite a significant journey here."

Before his new colleague could refuse, Albus had conjured a tray above the table, and instantly a large mug was filled by an obedient red teapot.

"That should do the trick," the Headmaster said, sitting Carodec down on a chair he had pulled up beside his own. Minerva's former student clasped it gratefully with his hands - which she saw were pink and raw with cold - before drinking deeply. During his loud gulps of tea the rest of the staff fell silent, watching him and marvelling collectively at how fast time seemed to have gone by – it felt like a very short time ago that he had been sorted into his House in this very space.

As Carodec finished, setting the empty mug on the table in front of him, Horace clapped a fleshy hand on his broad shoulder. "Dearborn my boy, I must say it's a tremendous joy to see you back. How many years has it been?"

"Seven, Sir," the younger man answered. Minerva had expected him to look up nervously, as he had done in her classes those years ago, but he seemed to have grown more confident during this elapsed period, and was entirely more relaxed now that he had revived himself from the journey.

"Ah yes, seven long years…" Slughorn sighed wistfully. "Merlin knows a lot has changed since."

"So Slytherin isn't still winning the Quidditch Cup, then?" Carodec asked, grinning. Minerva knew that he must have clear memories of incessant green-and-silver victories.

Slughorn appeared quite taken aback. "No," he said falteringly. "No, our fortunes have strayed from that area, sadly, which I can't help but blame entirely on the admittedly intimidating talent of one particular student… whose name I shan't mention lest I prejudice you against him with my somewhat resentful tone."

"Do you mean to say that Ravenclaw has climbed the ranks?" the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher asked hopefully.

"Not quite," Filius laughed, tea splashing from his cup as he added a lump of sugar. "These days Quidditch has been dominated by the boys – and indeed girls – in red."

Carodec nodded with a slight but knowing grin at Minerva, who nodded proudly.

"I was never much of a player," the young man said to the table. "But it's a great spectator sport –"

"Unless you happen to be me," said Slughorn curtly.

The rest of the table laughed at his childishness, but he merely pulled haughtily at his long moustache. Edward Carlyle, Professor of Ancient Runes and linguist of some renown, passed him the sugar bowl with a grin.

"Well, it gives the students something else to think about, at any rate," he said, and Horace had to agree.

Carodec nodded. "It's difficult to think all right, what school would have been like for me had all this stuff been going on at the time. Are many students expected this year?"

"The numbers will have dwindled, of course," Albus acknowledged seriously, adjusting the spectacles on his crooked nose. "But, as I was saying before your arrival, we still have numerous people to cater for, particularly those from Muggle backgrounds."

Carlyle drummed his fingers loudly on the table surface, as though playing a quick piano piece in staccato. "Lak-shul," he said hoarsely, with the wide, distant expression of a man steeped in the sounds and tones of ancient tongues, "– that's the expression for 'magic-less' in thirteenth-century Elfin Tongue - a word they took very seriously - which is thought to have been derived from the ninth-century 'Lackur-sha', meaning 'duty'. The fact that both concepts are so evidently intertwined is fascinating, due to..."

"Speaking of duties," Rebekah Scotch interjected (knowing, as they all did, Carlyle's ability to carry a discussion into sheer irrelevance), "have you decided who will be our Head Boy and Girl this year?"

Albus smiled enigmatically, leaning back on his chair and habitually pressing his fingers together. Like most things, Albus rarely discussed these matters before he had to, but she assumed that Remus Lupin, who was so well-mannered in spite of his monthly debilitating condition, would deserve the role of Head Boy.

Any colour in the ceiling above them had faded into an inky black, and any stars to be seen in the night sky were smothered by thick clouds. The candle flames dilated and contracted, sending dancing shadows across the room, and the edge of Albus' mouth twitched, as though in on some sort of joke to which all others were oblivious.

"Albus," Horace admonished after several minutes of silence, "please don't keep us in such suspense!" Minerva knew he was hoping that at least one of his own House members would reach the coveted student position at Hogwarts, and didn't want to prolong the wait any longer.

"As Head Girl," Albus said, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, "I have decided on Lily Evans."

A wide beam spread across Horace Slughorn's face. Though she was a Gryffindor pupil, it often appeared that he considered her one of his own.

"Excellent choice, Albus!" he exclaimed victoriously, and there was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the staff, including Minerva.

This was one of those rare times, she realised, when she agreed with Horace Slughorn. Lily Evans was a lovely girl – a diligent, hard working student who was respected by her fellows, with many friends and admirers alike. The previous year had issued a shattering blow to her life, with the tragic death of both of her parents in a Muggle accident. She had dealt with it exemplarily, but she knew that Albus was not giving her this position out of sympathy – out of all seventh years, Lily Evans was the most suited to the post.

"She's top-notch," Horace happily explained to an unacquainted Carodec. "One of my best and brightest students – it's a privilege to teach her, it really is."

"Is she by any chance a relation to Jerry Evans, who was in my year?" he inquired with a furrowed brow. "He's just finished his Healer training."

"Oh no," said Slughorn instantly. "She's Muggle-born, actually. You'd never know it though –"

Albus cleared his throat loudly. "Are you not interested in finding out who her male associate is to be, Horace?"

"Of course I am," Slughorn said serenely, "– fire ahead, old chum."

Again, Minerva saw the slight twitch around the Headmaster's mouth as he looked at the expectant faces around him. He studied his long bony fingers for a moment, and then, looking up at them all with raised eyebrows and a confident smile curving his mouth, he told them.

"James Potter."

It was only when Horace Slughorn emitted a horrified half-scream and the rest of the faculty expressed their shock with questioning glances at their Headmaster, that she realised that she had not misheard him after all. Albus merely sat back to survey the stifled chaos he had caused by uttering these two highly-charged words.

Slughorn, his face pale, forced a grin and began an attempt at laughter. "Oh Albus, up to your old tricks again – you very nearly had me this time!"

While it seemed to the staff that this sort of decision could only be accepted as some sort of joke, Albus was thoroughly unmoved by their reaction.

"My dear Horace," he said, his mouth breaking into a wide grin, "I'm being perfectly serious."

"Albus!" Horace exclaimed, now in a sheer and very obvious state of panic. "But that's simply preposterous – what? Potter as Head Boy? The very idea fills me with cold dread!"

He downed the remainder of his tea as though it were a shot of hot whiskey, and for a moment stared straight ahead, possibly envisioning the horrors that such a development might bring about.

Minerva herself, though nowhere near as distressed as Slughorn, was quite perplexed by Albus' decision. True, she held him in high esteem for his tremendous talent in her subject and often found him very entertaining, but James Potter seemed like a very odd choice for a position which required so much responsibility.

"Realistically, Albus," began Slughorn in obvious desperation, "has he not moved to the continent?"

"My sources tell me otherwise," the Headmaster answered simply, thoroughly amused by Slughorn's reaction.

Slughorn scowled at Minerva as though this was her doing.

"Besides," the Potions Master then attempted, "it's hardly fair to have two Gryffindors in charge, when –"

"All right, we'll find a replacement for Ms Evans," joked Rebekah, aggravating Slughorn even further.

"You know that's not what I mean," he snapped.

"Does anybody mind telling me," asked Carodec Dearborn politely, "who this Potter lad is?"

Carlyle sighed, not, however, without some amusement showing on his brown-bearded face. "Forgive us, Carodec – he's something of a household name around this neck of the woods. He is the aforementioned Gryffindor Quidditch player who understandably causes Horace a considerable deal of woe."

Carodec nodded, looking, like Albus, as though he was rather enjoying himself.

"And what has inspired me to put position him as Head Boy this year?" Albus asked rhetorically, looking around at his colleagues. "It is neither madness nor foolishness. It is because, as in Lily's case, I believe James to be the most suited for the job."

Albus ignored Slughorn's look of exaggerated disbelief, and continued.

"Other students look up to him – his influence is testified even by the number of younger boys who self-consciously mess their hair up every morning. We know from the Gryffindor team's successes that he is a very effective leader," – Slughorn's nostrils dilated in annoyance – "and he receives exceptional grades in almost every one of his subjects."

"Albus," Slughorn said, followed by a large intake of breath as if to keep his calm, "let's be reasonable. Just because there is a frankly dangerous number of Potter look-alikes running about the school does not mean that he –"

"Please, Horace," Albus said, raising a hand to stop him mid-sentence. "He has, I believe (and I'm sure none of you has failed to notice), matured a great deal over the past several months. And, in spite of disciplinary problems we may have had with him in the past, his integrity cannot be brought into question after what occurred just under a year ago."

The staff, including Slughorn, fell silent at this. Only Carodec looked quizzical at the mention of this, his wide blue eyes searching the table for an answer.

"What… what happened?" he asked quietly.

"He saved another student's life," the Headmaster informed him, "at great risk to his own, something the large majority of his fellow students remain ignorant to, for reasons I will discuss in detail with you at a later stage."

"Above all," Albus proceeded, his voice deepening in sincerity, "I believe that by issuing him with this responsibility, it will dramatically improve not only his own behaviour, but that of his closest peers."

Slughorn still looked far from convinced, but did not object vocally as his colleagues agreed openly with Albus' motives for giving the position of Head Boy to someone so unexpected. Instead, he turned to Carodec, his mouth widening in a semi-forced grin.

"Let's forget this business," he chuckled, "- which, as you have perhaps observed, is unpleasant to my ears! Have a glazed pineapple piece - go on, they're better than they look..."

Minerva sat back, knowing that under this grandfatherly demeanour the Potions Master was still fuming like a wind-ravaged chimney. She pressed her lips together, looking around once more at the darkened Great Hall, listening to the muffled silence which enveloped the walls - always strange during the summer months - which now had an undeniable, unsettling tonality. She couldn't help but wonder at the condition the students would be in on their return; the summer had been saturated in strife, and she had yet to know what traumas they might have endured. This tore at her heart for, as cold and stern as her demeanour was often perceived, there was not a moment when their welfare was far from her thoughts.

* * *

He took a cup gratefully from the plastic tray, cradling it in his hands for a moment to allow the warmth of the contained liquid seep into his skin. As he sat back into the lumpy sofa, drinking slowly from the chipped rim, he cast his eyes about the sitting room, which was beginning to darken on this rainy summer afternoon. 

A small bay window to his right revealed the narrow road that he and Sirius had walked. The large, square houses were all incredibly alike, each with rather shallow front gardens and small, neat hedges. It was a confusing place, a labyrinth of residential streets full of such dwellings, and though it was obviously quite densely populated, it seemed strangely remote; there was no evidence of war or ruin, or violence of any kind.

The only unsettling sound heard was a constant, buzzing moan, which seemed to emerge from the garden of the adjacent house. Their host, however, did not seem encumbered by it, and for a moment James wondered if, after the long motorbike journey a few days before, he could be imagining it. He was relieved, therefore, when Sirius asked, gesturing to the garden window as she handed him a spotted pink mug from the tray,

"Um, what is that noise exactly?"

"Oh," she laughed, her slippers shuffling against the rug as she moved towards the source of the sound. "That's just Mr Stevens, mowing the lawn. Don't worry – it's no threat to you."

She smiled vaguely, and then moved to the mysterious, cubed contraption in the corner of the room, twisting its dials and assembling the crooked dual aerial perched on top.

"Have you lads acquainted yourselves with the telly yet?" she asked, a look of satisfaction spreading across her face as a fuzzy moving image appeared on the front surface of the machine. "I hope you don't mind if we have Coronation Street on in the background – I have to say, I'm hooked at this stage."

Having no clue how to discern what she meant, Sirius and James merely mumbled their consent, shifting uneasily on the flat cushions.

"And help yourselves to some soup if you'd like it," she said, pointing to the tray where there were three bowls of a dark green, watery substance. "It's cabbage soup. I'd have gotten more ingredients if I'd known I'd have guests tonight, but you see, I like the taste of very little else."

Taking her own bowl and a steel soup spoon from the tray, she nestled into the armchair nearest to the "telly". And though she had just declared her addiction to some sort of entity that emitted from it, it soon became apparent, to the relief of the boys, that she had more interest in conversing with them.

"Now that we're finally settled," she said, tugging a shawl around her shoulders and looking at James, "I think I can ask how your mother is."

"She's fine," he replied automatically, though he guiltily suspected that she was far from it upon his departure. "She's living in France at the moment – she asked us on our return to drop in and see how you were…"

"And how am I?"

"I… I beg you pardon?" he asked, taken aback.

"What do you intend to report?" she elaborated, looking amused. "A good journalist should always validate his or her facts before relaying them to others. Though I don't suppose either of you have become journalists – do you have any intentions of doing so?"

Bewildered, they both shook their heads in reply.

"I thought not. It's a shame. We're a dying breed, you know. I used to write for The Prophet – in the old days. It was the only proper job out there for someone as atrociously magic-less as me."

She wistfully at the small fireplace, where a fat tabby was purring contentedly.

"Then, of course, I got the sack. They claimed they wanted to change their angle to a more 'exciting' one. Have you seen what it has become?" she asked, to no-one in particular, before answering herself with a flick of her hand. "Sensationalist rubbish… Good riddance, I say!"

She floated her spoon on top of the thin soup, filling it before lifting it to her mouth. Having finished his tea, James thought it impolite to refuse the meal she had prepared for them, however frugal, and cautiously tasted from his bowl. It wasn't the worst thing he had ever tasted (ill-advised dares throughout Slughorn's Potions classes had provided him with the ability to realise that the horridness of food is all relative), but that said, he would have rather eaten one of Mrs Figg's doilies if it hadn't been lacking in propriety.

"So," she began, after a short, awkward silence which had followed her outburst elapsed, "are you still at Godric's Hollow?"

"No," James answered, looking up from his efforts at soup-depleting. "I haven't been there for ages."

"It's a shame," she said, scratching the thick fur of the tabby absent-mindedly. "It's such a pretty place – and a far cry from here, at that."

She sighed, as she looked around the small purring living room, and out at the identical houses along the road.

"It doesn't seem so long ago that you were a wee one, no higher than that table, running around, and my sister chasing after you into some ditch or whatnot…"

James smiled at the memory. Her sister, Helena Bartley, had been his nanny and parents' housekeeper for years, and he fondly remembered her. There had been many times when he had dragged her out into the lashing rain, only to pet the winged horses, or had refused to sleep simply because he knew it irked her. In retrospect, he knew that he must have been a demanding child, but she was always patient, and though she could be stern, she always had such a kind manner that it seemed impossible that she could ever be truly angry.

The sisters had lived in the centre of the village, in a low terraced feline-filled house opposite the only tavern, with shallow steps leading to the door and moving stained glass in the kitchen window, and some clucking chickens in the yard behind it. He knew that Sirius thought it an odd expedition to make, but in truth, these women had been as much a part of his childhood as the silver sky or the dew-soaked heather of the vast grounds of his home.

Ms Bartley, he remembered, as he stared into the thin cabbage soup, had been a far superior cook, and many a morning had been spent in the kitchen of the cottage at Godric's Hollow, staring at the swirling flour that seemed to settle everywhere, and the sweet, warm smell that always promised a very pleasant dessert. She had died some time after his entry into Hogwarts, and for some time afterwards he would take refuge in accessing these untroubled memories... before this habit, like many of his childhood, drifted beneath the surface of his mind.

It had only been during his school holidays that he was able to observe the demise of the tiny wizarding village of Godric's Hollow - traditional residence for a few old, respected families, and a refuge of sorts for retired professors and ministers alike. It had experienced a gradual exodus since his childhood; the growing climate of fear and its very remote position being clear contributing factors. On his last visit, the old tavern was silent, the redbrick houses lining the main street lifeless and empty, and the cottage gardens abandoned and sadly overgrown.

He had always known Arabella Figg as Helena's thin, widowed sister - a curious, though utterly benign, cat-loving entity. It interested him, staring around the room in which they sat, to see remnants of that old life still present in this calm, Muggle suburb - a gloomy oil painting on the wall to the left of the "telly" had once hung in their tiny hallway, and the delicate floral plate which rested, dust-covered, on a modern side-table in the corner, had once belonged in their kitchen. Thinking about the possibilities of her neighbours discovering the slow animation of the framed painting, and the fruit-producing abilities of the little plate, led him to conclude that Mrs Figg didn't actually receive many visitors. This made him wonder, with a sudden pang of sadness, at the extent of her isolation; trapped, as she was, in a maze of identical streets, unhappily forging a Muggle identity (being blamelessly cut-off from her own world by her incapacity to produce any magic of her own).

"...I remember you used to get yourself so muddy. Have you finished with school?"

He had been brought back into the cabbage-smelling sitting room by Mrs Figg's wavering voice, and he looked up from the soup, which he had been stirring automatically, to see her lined, inquisitive face peering at him from the armchair.

"No..." he replied. "We've got another year left - we're going back on the first of September."

The woman nodded, returning her gaze to the cubed and aerialed contraption, and offering the bowl of soup to a black cat that had emerged from the adjoining kitchen. He remembered instantly that she would never have gone to Hogwarts - would never have experienced dormitory-life, breakfasts in the Great Hall, parchment essays by firelight, or midnight trips to the kitchens. Perceiving Sirius's slightly desperate glance in his direction, he pondered upon these issues only as he downed the remainder of the broth - unpleasant, but not entirely intolerable.

"Sorry 'bout all that, Padfoot," he apologised some time later, as they walked together towards a supermarket at the end of a quiet residential street. It had been a rather lengthy, uncomfortable visit, which he knew his best friend could not have enjoyed - yet he did not regret making it; he knew that she had appreciated it much more than they had. "We've still time to get the food."

"Just about," Sirius replied mildly, looking at his watch as he walked the motorbike along the path. "Milk, bread and perhaps some butter. I don't intend to live on curry chips for the rest of the summer - much as I love them," he added wistfully.

In the few days since their return to England, they had both undergone a massive lifestyle change. Gone were the formal, salad lunches in the refreshing shade of Mme Demarchalier's farmhouse; instead was the aforementioned diet - procured from a chipper conveniently situated in a very battered Victorian building, a few doors away from the flat Sirius' uncle had left him.

Their manner of dressing, likewise, had had to undergo a change - it was always necessary to act inconspicuous in the Muggle world. This had elicited a day-long trip to a tailor's - an apparently exclusive establishment expensively furnished with long, flattering mirrors and rather unctuous assistants, whose initial attitudes towards the boys - who had arrived dressed in a strange array of mismatching and poorly-fitting Muggle garments - had quickly developed from disdain to servitude on noting the intonations of their accents and the amount of money they were willing to spend.

This behaviour never impressed James, but he felt that it had to be endured (without, as he had eventually convinced Sirius, their snobbish hosts incurring certain penalties usually reserved for the similarly oily likes of Snivellus Snape). The result, admittedly impressive, of that trip into Knightsbridge was that they currently strolled, not as wizards, but as Muggle teenagers - extraordinarily well-dressed teenagers, but Muggles nevertheless.

The quiet street of houses sloped onto a wide, tarmac roadway, which featured a smooth, whizzing flow of Muggle cars, a tall series of residential buildings, and one modern supermarket. As the boys approached this cement structure, eyeing the bright signage and lines of metal trolleys, James was filled with a certain degree of apprehension.

"So, is this the same as one of our shops, or...?" he asked suspiciously, watching people emerge with plastic carrier bags. Even the exterior was so far removed from the little shop-fronts of Diagon Alley; he was beginning to question the very nature of this strange establishment.

"Oh, you poor country-boy," exclaimed Sirius in a friendly mocking tone, "confused by this electrically-lit realm of civilised suburbia!"

"Nonsense, you're as lost in this world as I am," James retorted, and his best friend did not venture to disagree.

A sudden downpour of rain quickened their entry into the shop. The glass doors rushed closed behind them as they silently surveyed the interior, a sight alien to anything either friend had every witnessed; a massive variety of brightly-coloured packages lined infinite aisles of shelves, the floor was compiled of plain, shiny tiles, and everything, from the withered vegetables to the mysterious electronics, was icily bathed in a dazzling, harsh light. The loud words and symbols, which seemed to scream at them from every angle, were confusing to wizarding eyes, accustomed to the dimmer, softer tones of small magical franchises such as Madam Malkin's and Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Sirius began to examine their wares, trailing his finger along the cardboard and plastic packaging which housed each individual item.

"Look at this one," he exclaimed, pulling down a lurid pink box and reading its caption. "'Fade-Out Washing Detergent' - promises to eternally banish stains from shirts and jeans..."

With a slight twist of his mouth, he pried it open with his fingertips, but the box unbalanced and fell, issuing a shout of juvenile laughter and a cloud of pale-blue powder all over the floor, and down Sirius' expensively tailored front.

An anxious-looking freckled boy approached them at a run, wearing a red shirt and apron (bearing the word "staff") and energetically wielding a mop. Knowing that such garments stood out from those of the general Muggle public, James had pulled out his wand, but the boy had knelt down to where the powder had spilled.

"No bother sir, I'll get that," his yet-unbroken voice said cheerfully.

Sirius eyed the mess and its cleaner curiously as James pulled him away, directing him quickly along the aisle.

"You can never be too careful, these days..." he murmured, as Sirius freed his arm and pocketed both hands.

"Please," he laughed dismissively. "As if anyone would b choose /b to inhabit such a guise..."

"Where's the milk?" asked James, ignoring Sirius' accusations of paranoia. "You can't find anything in this bloody place."

"Y'know," said Sirius thoughtfully, as they walked past repeated rows of regular shapes and patterns, "some wizard has probably made a mint out of those products - a simple household spell is all most of this stuff takes."

Finally, they arrived at what seemed to be a map of the building - it appeared embarrassingly small. Having located the dairy and baking sections - both at opposite sides of the store - they decided to separate and make their own way to each. On his own, the place seemed even more foreign, as though the yellow threshold had been a secret border into a distant land. Knowing it was useless to seek any form of familiarity, he continued with his task, imagining the countless distractions that Sirius would probably face along his way.

The milk was cold and thoroughly un-milkish, dressed as it was in a curious cube package and decorated with a sunset and smiling Friesian cows. He focused on the labelling on the items before him for some time, before picking up three of said cartons and a foil-wrapped block of what claimed to be butter. Hoping that the transaction would go smoothly, he set about to find Sirius.

The condensation seeped against the front of his Muggle suit as he carried these groceries, searching the limited and at times unintelligible signposts for some clue of where his best friend and the bakery might be. He was just thinking about how useful a marauder's map would be for such places when he bumped into someone.

"Sorry," he muttered, stepping out of her way, annoyed at his own lack of self-awareness. He glanced at the "staff" emblazoned apron, and began to ask, "Could you tell me where the..."

He trailed off, silenced by the vision of the face who stared incredulously back at him. Instantly he felt hot, his face colouring, and his mind racing thought the improbabilities of meeting her here, of all places.

Her face was completely different in this severe electronic light; her skin looked ghostly pale, and her straight hair clashed oddly with her Muggle clothing - garb which struck him as totally incongruous with the girl he knew. He perceived a definite and unnerving sadness in her brilliant eyes, but her pretty mouth widened in a smile of disbelief.

"You look," she began, sounding almost as embarrassed as he felt and setting down a stack of small boxes on the shelf behind her, "as though you've just raided the BBC costume archives."

"Well, I felt like I should try to blend in," James answered somewhat vaguely, unwilling to admit that he hadn't the least idea of what she was talking about.

"I'm not quite sure if you've succeeded," she laughed.

"Why are you... wh..." he stammered, trying to establish the phrasing of his question. "What are you doing here?"

"I think I have more of a right to ask you," she answered, folding her arms. Though she still looked amused at the sight of him in Muggle clothing, it seemed to him that she was beginning to close her expression, as though unsure if it were actually him. The same thought suddenly occurred to him as to her identity, and he wondered why the growing distrust of others, which had been cultivated by random attacks and fearful headlines, had not unleashed itself on seeing her.

"I'm..."

The repetitive music which seemed to pipe from invisible enclaves wove through the otherwise empty aisle, and for a moment he focused on her, deliberating. Through this sterile, life-sucking environment came the soft smell of leaves and twigs, the cool grass and burning fireworks. He knew only that her current breathing sustained the same rhythm, and that her stature had the same unintentionally graceful air... and though this seemed to confirm that he was definitely looking at Lily Evans, it scared him that, though he knew her so little, he recognised such fundamental details.

"I'm..." he began again, clearing his throat, rubbing his one empty hand through his hair, "here on a visit - someone I know lives on..." The address evaded him.

"What's her name?" she asked bluntly.

"Arabella Figg," he answered uncomfortably. "She's... a friend of the family. Likes cats," he added pointlessly.

She looked down at the alternately tiled floor, and up the aisle, as though searching for a reason to move away. Her hand was in her pocket, and he knew well what she was clutching.

"All right, well..." she began, as if about to make off. She was not convinced.

"It's me," he exclaimed earnestly. "James Potter - I've played Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team for a year - Seeker before that..." she narrowed her eyes, still looking alert, but remaining stationary. He tried desperately to think of some other fact, known only to them. "We... sat together for a while, after the final - I threw leaves in your hair... and then you threw some in mine."

He fell silent, blushing wildly, but closely watching her reaction. This little speech had made him feel quite pathetic, and he wondered at the power of his rapidly beating heart, which had made him so desperate for her to acknowledge him for who he was. It had taken the desired effect, however; she relaxed, a sincere smile spreading across her face, a relieved expression lifting her painfully sad eyes.

"Sorry," she then said, in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. "I just... I mean, what with the attacks and everything... and the extreme strangeness of meeting you here, I just didn't know..."

"So..." he began, seeing another customer enter the aisle, examining what was stacked on the shelves.

"I work here," she answered, having seen his inquisitive expression. She gestured at her apron vaguely, as though faintly unhappy about this declaration, but unwilling to show it.

"You're going back though, aren't you?" he asked, slightly panicked that she had entered a career already. "To school, I mean."

She paused, smoothing her red apron. "Of course," she then said. "And you, I take it?"

"Of course," he repeated cheerfully. "Right now I'm staying in Sirius' flat in London - he's here too - I think he got lost in the... bread section."

"This is mad," she exclaimed, glancing around as if expecting to see Sirius beside her. "I've been working here every day, since the holidays began... my sister lives nearby - I've been living there..."

Her words trickled off into nothing, and she looked at the floor. This scene might have evolved into one of dull, uneasy awkwardness, had there not been a massive crash nearby. Both, following the sound to the bottom of the aisle, were beset by the sight of the Muggle customer, who gesticulated in an irritated manner at the mess of glass and splattered jam on the floor.

For an instant, Lily looked as though she was about to cry. Instead, she walked briskly over to the woman, and told her in a false, cheery voice, that it was nothing to worry about - the very same assurances he had recently heard from the boy wearing the same apron. The woman sighed loudly, as though the girl was to blame, before stalking off, leaving Lily kneeling over the mess.

He knelt beside her in the aisle, watching her glare silently after the perpetrator. He wondered how, having heard her smart classroom retorts on many occasions, she had remained so subservient.

"Don't -" she implored him, seeing that he was about to perform a vanishing spell.

"What - you expect to do this by hand?"

"Muggle area, James!" she said exasperatedly, tearing a roll of cloth from her apron. "Do you know how many times I've gotten those stupid letters - 'The Ministry of Magic has been informed... this is a warning... indecent magical exposure...' even when they - the Muggles - haven't actually seen anything..."

"Ok, well I'll help you anyway," he said stubbornly, picking sticky shards of glass out of the spilt jam and putting them aside. She nodded, and, though his knowledge of Muggle cleaning was undeniably limited, he flattered himself that his assistance quickened the process.

The paper cloth absorbed the red fluid from the glossy floor as though cleaning a wound, and the smell of preserved strawberries lingered in the stuffy air. Soon all that was left was a faint stain on the floor, which Lily deemed adequately clean. Still, they remained kneeling.

"Are you all right?" he asked her seriously; he had never seen anyone look so downtrodden, so close to defeat... and he couldn't bear to witness the misery of anyone he cared about.

"Fine," she answered lightly, untruthfully. Seeing that she was not about to retract her statement and elaborate, he offered a hand to help her up; she accepted, unusually, and they stood silently for a moment before a loud voice broke through the unpleasant piped soundtrack.

"Prongs," Sirius exclaimed, grabbing his arm, "Where in Hades have you been?! I've been looking everywhere, and then got lost among what I was told was the toiletries section... this place is bizarre."

He was clutching a variety of things - a bare loaf of bread was just visible beneath a cluster of tins and condensation-covered packages.

"It's just Tesco," objected Lily, laughing at his astounded expression when he turned and recognised her.

"No," he replied in a fluster, as though this were a rapidly disintegrating dream he no longer comprehended and from which he wished to escape, "I haven't the faintest idea of what this is..."

James bent down to retrieve the milk and butter from where he had left it on the floor, when suddenly a light above them flickered off, leaving the illuminated area in a gloomy shade of grey.

"Oh," Lily exclaimed, looking around her as a muffled announcement projected from some mysterious place, "we're closing - they're telling the last customers to leave."

"Where will we pay?" asked James quickly, wondering how much Sirius' collection would amount to in Muggle money.

"Just take them," she answered, beckoning them hurriedly "- there's a door over there."

"Look," said Sirius, maintaining the selection in his arms with an admirable degree of skill, "I'm all for nicking stuff from Honeydukes, but... stealing lettuce?"

"There's a first time for everything," she replied, opening a narrow door to reveal an empty and puddled car park.

"You won't get into trouble?" James asked her, concerned, as he squeezed through after Sirius.

"Nope," she replied, with a certain glint of steeliness in her eyes, "I'm quitting tomorrow."

Sirius stood still, freeing a hand and pulling from his pocket a battered pencil and throwing it on the wet ground. "C'mon," he called, looking at the sky, "it's getting dark!"

"Do you want to come with us?" James suddenly blurted out, and he felt himself redden again.

She seemed understandably taken aback - she stood in the doorway, her face conveying a mixture of amusement and anxiety. "No," she then replied with a laugh, lowering her head and turning, on the verge of retreating inside, "I… I'm sorely tempted! - but I don't think I should."

"Bye then," James said sadly, absorbing the prettiness of her face as Sirius grabbed his arm and began to pull him away.

"See you in September," she called, and there was an audible note of determination in her voice, as though such casual words were voiced as a vow.

The back of the shop was bare and windowless, and, the door having been closed, devoid of ways in which curious Muggles could view this rear car-park.

"You do the honours," Sirius said, nodding towards the pencil, half-submerged in a puddle. "My hands are full."

James sighed, looking around, ensuring that the gated lot was fully enclosed by a high wall. Then he quickly performed the task, until instead of a pencil, standing in the puddle in all its shining metal glory, was Sirius' motorbike.

They were soon flying, invisibly, through a misty evening sky. The forceful wind rendered conversation impossible, but even if they had been freer to communicate, James wouldn't have known what to say. His thoughts were a confused jumble, producing images and sounds which connected and disconnected as excitedly and uncontrollably as bludgers. He found it difficult to believe that this encounter with Lily Evans had actually occurred - it seemed so utterly unlikely - yet he forced himself to acknowledge it. He knew perfectly well that, once they returned to Alphard's bedsit, with its oil-stained floral wallpaper, carpet worn to grey and curious oriental tea set, Sirius would jokingly taunt him with allusions to fate. Though he knew he would scorn them in reply, James could not help dwelling on the strange odds her being employed by the only Muggle supermarket he had ever entered.

For him, this summer had been one of painful separations and rather awkward reunions; the knowledge that he was now independent, relieved of the constraints of childhood, had evolved from these. Those wild, flour-dusted mornings, and afternoons of beautiful, carefree leisure, were left behind in a disappearing trail of exhaust, and as they descended upon the dense, chimneyed rooftops of North London, he looked into the darkening future with mixed sensations of rumbling trepidation and soaring excitement.

* * *

**So, so sorry about the enormous delay; I've just had a very stressful academic year - I've been writing bits of this throughout it, but the non-HP books demanded a lot of attention! Please leave a review if you wish...**

* * *

**Charlotte Donahue: **Thank you – I've finally updated, much later than I had anticipated, unfortunately!

**Stargazer777: **That's all right – everyone has their own tastes – thanks for reviewing anyway!

**faithwings: **Thank you, thank you for your lovely review! You've probably thought that it actually has been discontinued at this stage, what with the year-long hiatus – sorry about that – hope you like this chapter.

**Drajl719: **Thank you – hope you like this chapter!

**stag-star: **Thanks – it's definitely continuing – unless the seventh book rips the plot to pieces – hope you liked this instalment!

**Chelz: **Thank you for the tremendous encouragement – keep reading, and hope you like this chapter (which I know is a bit long, but I feel like I owe people)!

**Jasu: **Again, thank you for your lovely review – I really appreciate the detailed ones! I agree that the members of "pure-blooded" families would be expected to be able to communicate in other languages (French particularly - it's always been associated with aristocracies outside France, I think)… Also, because the tradition of pure-blood marriage is kept within such a small, elitist group, it would be necessary to become acquainted with similar families in other countries, if the tradition were to continue. As you can see, James and Sirius do not become Henri Champney's adopted sons – though it was a very nice idea! – but you will hopefully see a bit more of him. As for James' parents' marriage, I completely agree – it is impossible to imagine that pure-blood marriages were not without tension, and there is nothing in the books to indicate that it was a happy family situation. We've seen that his character has obvious flaws, but if he's painted as being part of a 'perfect' or ideal situation, where did these flaws come from? With regard to the mistress question, he was vaguely aware of it because – as you have stated – 'straying' would have been seen as quite a normal activity. I will hopefully develop on that issue later on. Sorry about the long delay – I hope you like this chapter!

**MySite: **Thank you – a year later, it's finally been updated – hope you're still reading it!

**Jay: **Thank you for your lovely review! I do like paying attention to the details, which I usually draw from real observations (to the detriment, I think, of the pace of the plot!)… Another very long chapter – perhaps my longest yet, which I hope you like! Regarding fan art, I had been thinking of making my own – now that I finally have some spare time on my hands - but, depending on what's involved, I'd also be interested in seeing someone else's ideas.


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